Trinity Book II: Flames
by sknkodiak
Summary: An ATF story. Team Magnificent Seven is under attack on all sides, and crumbling from within as well. Friends become foes, but can foes become friends in time to save Buck and Ezra's lives?
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

 _Florida:_

Pirates Key was a small islet off the coast of Florida. Unlike some of the islands farther south, which boasted luxurious mansions of the rich and almost-famous, Pirates Key had only a dozen small homes, most of them lived in full-time by people who might easily be described as "eccentric" and had resided there for years.

Betty McClendon had been an artist of some local renown. Upon her death in the early '70s, her small, two-room shack on the north side of the Key had passed to her two grandsons in California. One of them had lived there for a while but he'd left to go into business in San Diego with his brother. It had been many years since either of the Simon boys-as the neighbors still referred to them-had been there for more than a week or so at a time.

Nonetheless, when in 1993 the property was sold, the inhabitants of the Key were upset. All the more so that the shack was torn down and a gleaming seventeen-room mock-Victorian mansion was built in its place.

But time passes and things change, even on Pirates Key. The new owner of the place, a man named Cletus Fowler, wasn't there much but when he ran into his neighbors he was always pleasant and seemed to understand the reclusive nature of people on the Key. The big parties and wild tourists the inhabitants of Pirates Key had feared never came about.

By the time Fowler came to live full-time on the island, the inhabitants had gotten used to his house and his boat. It took them awhile, but they eventually got used to Fowler's stunning blonde wife and the various silent men who seemed to work for him.

Fowler himself seemed to be retired although no one actually knew what he was retired _from_. His short haircut and upright bearing led some to believe he was retired military although that would not account for his apparent wealth. Fowler himself vaguely mentioned he was semi-retired but occasionally "consulted" for old friends. Five or six times a year he would be gone for a week or two. His wife took the opportunity to head out for shopping sprees in Miami or New York.

In time, the activities of Cletus Fowler and company just became another set of eccentricities in a community of eccentrics.

 _March 27_

One small lamp burned on the desk, creating a pool of golden light. The man known to his neighbors as "Cletus Fowler" stood just outside of the reach of the light, staring out the window. It was the darkest time of night, the hours before dawn. A sliver of moonlight peeked out from heavy clouds and cast silver radiance on the ocean.

The phone rang.

After the third ring, Fowler walked across the room to the desk, reaching out and picking up the receiver. He didn't say anything. He knew whom the call was from, just as the caller knew who would answer.

"You were right."

Fowler closed his eyes. "He's still alive."

"Yeah. He's at University Medical Center. Been touch and go but they think he's gonna make it."

"Damn."

A pause.

"You want me to take care of him?" the caller inquired. "From what I could tell this afternoon, he doesn't have a guard on his door or anything. I could probably do it real easy."

"No."

"You sure?"

" _You_ don't do anything. He's my problem." Fowler dropped the phone back onto the desk.

He walked back to the window. The moon had gone back behind the clouds and there was nothing to be seen but inky blackness.

"Damn."

He'd failed.

First time in his career.

He'd have to rectify that.

The man who had hired him might be in jail, but that didn't make any difference. He was a friend. An old friend.

More than that, he'd paid for a job. And the job wasn't done yet.

It wouldn't be done until an ATF agent named Buck Wilmington was dead.

Bolo Orlowski always finished his jobs.

 _Denver:_

Arthur Curran sat alone in his library. A warm fire burned in the fireplace, warding off the early spring chill. Curran reached for the bottle of brandy on the table in front of him, pouring himself another drink. Sipping at the liquor, he slowly leafed through the pages of the photo album he held on his lap.

Most of the pictures were of his son. Steven. The early pages represented him as a baby, an infant, a toddler. Then his school years. It was the later pictures Curran concentrated on: those that showed his son as the handsome young man he had grown to be. Dark hair, blue eyes. He had inherited his mother's coloring and features; his keen intellect was all Curran. Steven Curran had been full of such promise. His father had looked forward to the day he could turn his empire over to his dearly loved son.

He closed the book, taking up instead a silver-framed photo from the table behind the leather-covered sofa. He studied the faces of his two nieces and his nephew. All the family he had left now.

Nina. David. Monica.

He had entrusted to them the greatest task he could.

To them had fallen the right to avenge the death of their cousin.

He'd offered each of them twenty million dollars and the chance to step away from the family business. It pleased him that none of them had taken him up on the idea. All three were committed to ridding the world of a murderer.

They'd already failed once. They didn't think he knew, but he did. He kept a closer eye on their activities than they could imagine.

He was disappointed in their first attempt. Well, not _their_ first attempt-from what he could determine Monica had come up with the idea all on her own-turning to Nina and David only when she needed help covering her tracks. It surprised Curran that Monica, of all of them, would have been the most aggressive. He couldn't help being pleased with her even though she could have brought down his whole empire. But Nina and David had leapt to assist her and all indications were that law enforcement was merrily following the false leads David and Nina had planted.

Now they were working together. Arthur Curran smiled. He had faith in his nieces. Of David, he was less sure. David was neither as intelligent as Monica nor as cunning as Nina. He wasn't subtle. That he could do the task entrusted to him Curran never doubted. But to do it and not leave a trail directly back to the Curran empire-that was more difficult. That would require wit and cunning and intelligence. In short, that would require all three of them.

Arthur Curran hoped they realized that now.

And, if by chance they should fail again, well, he had that covered too.

One way or the other, Special Agent Ezra Standish would die.

 **~*~*~*~**

David Wyerly rolled over in the king-sized bed and kicked off the covers. He hated things touching him when he was trying to sleep. He used his arm to gently shove the woman next to him away. She mewled in her sleep, a sound of displeasure, but didn't wake. A few minutes later her even, soft breathing testified she'd drifted back into sound sleep. She snuggled close to David again and again he pushed her away. Then he abruptly climbed from the bed.

Nude, he padded across the small bedroom and exited into the short hallway, closing the door softly behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was wake up his companion. The sex had been good but her shrill voice gave him a headache. He wouldn't see her again after this night.

The smell of the tiny living room assaulted him: cigarette smoke, her overly-sweet perfume, and the Chinese food they'd had for dinner. Grimacing, he crossed the room to the sliding glass door, opening it and allowing the chill breeze into the room. The thin gauze curtains billowed like ghostly shadows. He stood looking over the city for a few minutes, inhaling the fresh air. The main reason he'd selected this apartment was for the view from the balcony. The apartment was tiny and almost ridiculously over-priced, but he wasn't there that much anyway. Most nights he stayed at his uncle's, usually only using the apartment when he had a date or when he just needed a break from the elegance and formality of the family home.

Steven had been with him when he'd seen this place for the first time.

Turning abruptly from the window, he switched on the lamp behind the couch. Soft yellow light filled the room. He dropped into the butter-soft leather cushions and pushed aside the cartons and debris left on the coffee table from dinner, reaching for his cigarettes. "Damn," he said aloud. He'd left his gold lighter-a gift from Monica last Christmas, a surprisingly appropriate gift for his cousin-in the bedroom. He didn't want to go get it and risk waking up the woman-what _was_ her name? Started with an "L"...Linda, maybe or Lisa. Her purse lay on its side under the coffee table and he rummaged amongst the contents until he found a packet of matches. Lighting his cigarette, he leaned back and let the comforting smoke fill his lungs.

Steven...

His cousin. But so much more.

Best friend. Partner. Brother in all but name.

Funny but he had few childhood memories of his own childhood home. Most of his early memories were he and Steven, playing on the beach at his uncle's summer home in California. Christmas celebrations here in Denver, with the big house decorated and a huge tree and piles of presents. Only a few recollections of his own home, the small two-bedroom bungalow in Kansas City; of his parents, always fighting.

And then his mother had died. And his father had sent him and Nina away. "It will just be for a little while, dear," his aunt had comforted him. "Just until your father gets back on his feet.

He didn't even remember his father saying good-bye.

That first summer had been so much fun. They'd gone to Hawaii for a few weeks but he didn't remember much of it. Then back to the three-story house on the beach in California, where floor-to-ceiling windows were always open to let in the fresh ocean air and bright sunlight. Trips to Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm and the Hollywood Wax Museum. He and Steven, with Uncle Arthur always encouraging them to have a good time. So different from his own father who was always tired and in a bad mood and worried about the bills.

He and Steven...

Nina was too young to be included in most of their games and Monica was a shy, withdrawn child, who even then had preferred a good book to the company of her cousins.

The summer ended and they went back to Denver. He was enrolled in Steven's school for the fall. New clothes and stuff.

He never heard from his father again...never really cared to hear from him again.

He didn't need him. He had Steven. And Steven had him.

When had he realized what exactly Uncle Arthur's business was? Not the details but he thought he'd started suspecting early. Surely by his teens he'd known. Knew, too, that his life was planned already. Steven would follow in his father's footsteps and he would be at Steven's side.

The way it should be. The way it was. Through high school, college and beyond.

Until "Eric Stoddard" had come along. Charming, witty-a lot like Steven actually. They'd had a lot in common.

David's hands clenched into tight fists. No. Steven could never have anything in common with that...that bastard.

Eric Stoddard. True name, Ezra Standish. ATF agent. Fed.

The man who'd betrayed and murdered Steven.

Rage-blood red, swirling rage-blocked David's vision. That bastard. _That bastard!_ The murdering SOB!

He would pay... _pay_ for Steven's death. He would _pay_ for taking away David's brother. He would _pay_ with his life, and David would be the one to exact revenge.

He would do it because he had to. For Steven. Uncle Arthur's money be damned. Maybe that was why Nina and Monica were involved. Maybe not. But _David_

would be the one to make Standish pay. Forget Nina and Monica and their involved schemes. He would take Standish somewhere and he would cut him, watch his blood trickle down to the dirty ground. Or maybe he'd shoot him-not to kill him-shoot him again and again until Standish was begging for it to stop, begging for death.

Or maybe burn him...

He didn't know how. But he was going to do it. Do Standish.

He had to.

For Steven.

 _tbc..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 1**

 _Denver CO  
March 29_

Chris Larabee stepped inside AD Travis' office. "You wanted to see me, Judge?"

It had been several years since Orrin Travis had left the Bench to accept an Assistant Director position with the ATF, but to Chris Larabee, as well as to most of the law-enforcement community in Denver, he'd always be "the Judge."

"Chris. Come in, have a seat."

Larabee obeyed, slipping into one of the two leather visitor chairs in front of the massive cherry wood desk.

Travis leaned back in his seat, studying the man in front of him. He shook his head. "Aren't you getting any sleep, Larabee?"

His characteristic half smile quickly crossed Chris' face, and just as quickly vanished. "Been a bad couple of weeks," he said evasively.

Travis nodded, raising his eyebrows. He knew how fiercely protective the leader of Team Seven was over his men, his family. And the last two weeks had been, to put it bluntly, hell. "I see that Mr. Standish has returned to duty. He's fully recovered, I trust?"

Chris nodded. There was no humor in the grin this time. "To hear him tell it there was nothing ever wrong with him. But his doctor released him. All the tests show no residual cardiac damage. Nathan's keeping an eye on him, just the same."

"That was a terrible business," Travis said, watching Larabee keenly.

The younger man's jaw clenched and familiar lines of tension creased his forehead and around his mouth. "Yep," he said curtly. "Ezra's in a meeting with the Assistant DA assigned to the case today. Berman, his name is."

"Ira Berman," Travis nodded. He still had a lot of friends in the DA's office and he'd been perturbed that a case of such magnitude-with federal charges in addition to local ones-had been assigned to such a relatively young ADA. "He's supposed to be quite brilliant." He paused, studying Larabee closely. "I stopped by the hospital to see Buck yesterday."

The ice-green eyes darkened briefly. Not for the first time Travis wondered how Chris Larabee could have any back molars left, he clenched his jaw so tightly. "He said you'd been by."

"What do the doctors say?"

Chris took a deep breath, let it out, took another. "It's going to be a long haul. He's stable enough now, but...a lot of things could still go wrong. And Buck..."

"Buck doesn't enjoy being a _'patient'_?"

 _"Patience_ isn't one of his virtues." Chris hesitated, and Travis got the idea he wanted to say more, but didn't. The silence stretched between them.

Finally Travis broke it. He handed Chris the manila folder he'd been studying when Chris had entered the office. "You have a new assignment," he said simply.

 _tbc..._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Part 1 was pretty short so I decided to go ahead and post Part 2 today as well. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Part 2**

"Wow!" JD exclaimed. "Who're they from, Vin?"

Josiah stepped out of the conference room and lifted his eyebrows. " _Two_ bouquets of roses, Brother?"

"You make some lady very happy lately?" Nathan added, looking up from the pile of textbooks on his desk and grinning.

His cheeks as red as the roses in the larger arrangement, Vin carefully set the smaller vase-filled with daisies and cheerful yellow roses and frothy white baby's breath-on the corner of Ezra's desk. The crystal vase of long-stemmed crimson roses he gingerly placed on his own.

"Who they from?" JD repeated.

"Don't know yet," Vin admitted, reaching for the white envelope half hidden among the fragrant blooms. "Didn't know there were any flowers left in Denver, what with all those deliveries Bucklin's gettin' in the hospital."

Nathan pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "Whoever sent 'em must like you a lot, Vin. Two dozen red roses in this city? Hundred bucks, easy."

Vin opened the envelope, finding not the expected card but a stiff piece of expensive notepaper. He ran his finger over the embossed design at the top of the sheet-a wolf head silhouetted against a full moon-before glancing at the message. He sighed with relief when he realized the sender had printed the words, each letter meticulously formed in very black ink. Although he'd made great strides in overcoming his dyslexia in recent years-thanks to the support of his teammates and a tutor from the local university-unfamiliar handwriting was still difficult for him. This printing was much easier to read.

 _"Dear Agent Tanner-_

 _The last of the Federal inspection teams left this morning and Riverside Pharmaceuticals has been given a clean bill of health._

 _Please accept these flowers as a token of my thanks for your support and assistance during the last stressful weeks._

 _Monica Hastings."_

There was a brief silence in the office after Vin finished reading.

"Well, that's nice of her, I guess," JD said, with much less enthusiasm than he'd shown before. Ezra's almost-death because of an experimental drug stolen from Hastings's lab was still too fresh in his mind.

Nathan gestured to the flowers on Ezra's desk. "Wonder what that's about?"

"She feels pretty bad about what happened," Vin answered, folding the note up and stuffing it back into the envelope. "Them FDA guys gave her a pretty hard time."

JD's breath escaped in a hiss. "Her lax security made it possible for Kevin Murine to get his hands on that drug," he snapped. "Ezra almost _died_ Vin, or don't you remember that?"

"Not likely to forget it," Vin countered. "But, hell, JD, if it hadn't been that drug it would have been something else. Murine was under orders from Hoyt to kill Ezra."

"Brother Vin is right, JD," Josiah said calmly.

"Murine sure vanished into thin air," Nathan mused. "No leads and it's been over two weeks."

Vin winced, although he knew Nathan's words weren't meant as an insult to him. It galled him that with all of his experience tracking criminals he hadn't been able to find a trace of the man who had poisoned Ezra.

"Can't seem to find who blew up the loft, either," JD muttered, turning back to his computer. His three teammates exchanged glances.

"Well, we got the guy behind both attempts," Nathan finally said. He glanced at his watch and frowned. "Ezra's sure been gone a long time."

As if saying his name had conjured him up, Ezra Standish chose that moment to enter. He was impeccably dressed as always, but his normal poker face was absent. Ezra was pissed, and it showed.

"Didn't go well with Assistant DA Berman?" Vin questioned.

"I haven't _met_ with the estimable Mr. Berman yet," Ezra spit out, his soft Southern accent more noticeable than usual.

JD's eyes widened. "But your meeting was at nine!" Ezra, who was not a natural early-riser, had bitched about that all the day before.

"What happened, Ezra? Oversleep and miss your appointment?" Nathan's voice was equal parts irritation and amusement. Standish's disdain for early risings was a frequent source of conflict between the two of them.

Ezra shot the other man an annoyed look. "I was punctual in my arrival at Mr. Berman's office," he proclaimed. " _He_ was forty-five minutes late with some story about his alarm failing to perform in an acceptable manner."

Much to his teammates' credit, not one of them cracked a smile. Still, Ezra seemed to know what they were thinking and he reluctantly grinned. "All right, well, _I_ of all people could understand that, but then he had to have a conference with his superiors, then he was meeting some personage somewhere else...on and on. I finally informed his secretary I was going to obtain some lunch and he could contact me on my cellular phone when he had time to meet with me." Ezra had managed to say all of that on one breath.

"Lunch?" Nathan questioned. "It's past three-thirty."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "I am so glad to see you are utilizing the timepiece I gave you for Christmas." He slammed his briefcase down on his desk, completely ignoring the flowers, and turned on his heel, heading toward the break room.

"Our brother seems more agitated than the circumstances warrant," Josiah finally said, breaking the silence in the office.

"Yeah," Vin said thoughtfully. "He sure does." The lanky Texan pushed himself off the desk he'd been perched on and started to follow Ezra. Out of the corner of his eye he could see JD standing up, and he swung around to shake his head. "Give me a minute with him."

Ezra had the refrigerator door opened and was staring into it as if the secrets of the universe were contained on its chilly shelves. Far more interest than the contents deserved.

"I'd give the pizza a miss," Vin said, leaning against the doorjamb.

Ezra snorted, took out a bottle of water and then let the door close. "Since that particular item has been in there since before we all embarked on our ill-fated vacations, I concede your suggestion is of viable merit."

Vin raised his eyebrows as he slid into the seat across from Ezra. "Want to talk about what's _really_ got you so riled up?"

Ezra managed a half-grin before his eyes fell to the table. He turned the water bottle around in his hands, making no move to drink. "I heard...a rather upsetting rumor while I was loitering in the DA's office."

Vin frowned. "A rumor? What kind of rumor?"

Ezra took a deep breath. "Some of the clerical people were sayin' that the DA isn't going to prosecute Marcus Hoyt on anything but the original charges brought against him."

It took Vin several seconds to realize what Ezra was saying and then his heart started pounding hard. "You mean the weapons charges?"

Ezra nodded.

"What about attempted murder?" Vin's voice rose. He knew the answer by the look on Ezra's face. "Damn! That can't be right!"

Ezra held up a hand. "It's just a rumor, Mr. Tanner."

"Can't be right," Vin insisted. "Hell, the Judge would know...he'd've said somethin' to Chris."

Ezra raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Larabee has been in a somewhat surly mood the last few days," he pointed out. "Even for _him_."

Vin snorted. "Iff'n Chris thought there was a chance Hoyt would get off, he'd be a helluva lot more than _'surly'_ ," he pointed out.

"True," Ezra nodded. "We haven't had to duck any flying projectiles from his office."

"Hey, guys." JD stuck his head in the door. "Chris is back from seeing the Judge, wants all of us in the conference room pronto." The youngest member of the team vanished. Vin started to follow but Ezra caught his arm.

"Mr. Tanner...I think it would be best if we kept this information to ourselves right now. There is no need to agitate our teammates until we know for certain."

Vin nodded. "You got a point there, Ez. Come on, let's go see what Chris has got to say."

 **7777777**

"Listen up, ladies," Chris said, distributing manila folders to each of his team. "We've got a job, and not much time to prepare."

Ezra leafed through the neatly typed papers stapled inside the folder. "At the risk of sounding like a cretinous seventies t-shirt, where the hell is Hugo, Oklahoma?"

"Just a guess-Oklahoma?" JD grinned. Ezra rolled his eyes at him.

"It's a little place, southeast Oklahoma, right on the Texas line," Vin drawled.

"Vin's right. The local law enforcement thought they were onto a big pot-growing operation. It's a rural area, easy to slip across the state line-great area for that kind of thing. They managed to infiltrate the lower echelon of the ring, and found out the proceeds from the marijuana are being used to buy weapons. They've got quite a cache already, and they have a meet scheduled with a dealer out of Shreveport in three days. The locals didn't think they could handle that and called for help. We're it."

Vin turned over another page and whistled. "The dealer is Brody Carter? Heard of him."

"Of _course_ you have," Ezra muttered, just loudly enough for Vin to hear.

Tanner ignored him. "Nasty piece of work."

"Carter's been under constant surveillance for the last couple of months by the Louisiana authorities. They knew he was on to something big but couldn't get a handle on what." Chris grinned in a feral manner. "They were more than happy to 'detain' Mr. Carter for a while." He noticed the questioning looks. "As best we can tell, no one in the Hugo group has ever _met_ Carter-all their dealings have been through email and phone."

"God bless the Information Age," Josiah uttered.

"So, with Mr. Carter under wraps, we can send our own man in." Chris looked at Ezra, who nodded. It wasn't much time to prepare, but he'd done more with less.

"When do we leave?" Nathan asked, a worried frown crossing his face.

"Ezra and his 'bodyguard' will go to Shreveport-just in case the Hugo group has better information sources than we think. The rest of us will fly to Dallas tomorrow evening, pick up equipment and vehicles and drive on in to Hugo." He glanced at Nathan. "'Cept for you, Nate. You've got the paramedic re-cert coming up next week, you need to stay here."

Nathan looked both relieved and chagrined. "Chris, I can-" Larabee cut him off with a raised hand.

"Priorities, Nathan. You don't pass that test and we don't have a medic. Besides, I'd feel better if someone was here to keep an eye on Buck."

"That makes us two men short," Josiah pointed out.

Chris cleared his throat. "Well, actually, only one man short."

Six pairs of eyes fixed themselves on their leader. Chris went on, "Judge has temporarily assigned Bobby Fewell to Team Seven."

There was dead silence in the conference room.

"As Mr. Wilmington's replacement?" Ezra finally asked, although his tone made it more a statement than a question.

JD bolted up from his seat. "Nobody can replace Buck!" Ezra winced.

"Temporary. That's all it is, temporary." Chris glared at Ezra, then glanced back at JD. "Sit down, JD...no one is replacing Buck." A small smile graced his face. "No one could, anyway, you're right about that. Judge just thinks Bobby would be a good extra pair of hands for a few months."

"Thought Bobby was goin' to be movin' on to his permanent assignment soon?" Vin fiddled with his file of papers.

Chris shrugged. "From what the Judge said, he wanted Bobby to train with us, rather than Team Three, all along but it didn't work out. Thinks we might be able to give him some good pointers before he heads off to Houston. Talk of making a Remtef team out of there, next year or maybe the year after."

A cell phone started ringing. Everyone checked their phones and Ezra rolled his eyes when it proved to be his. "Probably the Assistant District Attorney requesting the pleasure of my company."

It was, and Ezra quickly left the office. The others went to their desks to start working on their various individual responsibilities. Chris delegated JD to locate Bobby Fewell and start briefing him, knowing the two young men were friends. Then Chris went into his private office, and-against his usual policy-shut the door behind him. He sank down in the chair behind his desk and rubbed away the incipient headache behind one eye.

After a few silent moments, he opened his eyes and studied the top of his desk, touching the antique spur he used as a paperweight. Buck had given him the object, during the first year of Team Seven's existence. He'd bought a pair of them in a nearby antique store and given one to Chris and one to Vin.

Chris still wasn't sure exactly what message Buck had been intending to communicate with the gift, but he treasured it. He picked it up now, holding it in his hand while his eyes lit on the framed picture of he and Buck, right after the successful conclusion of their first case as partners in Homicide.

He didn't see the two smiling young men in the picture. Instead his eyes were filled with a more recent, bitter memory...

 _Alcohol-fueled rage rose up as reality crashed in on Larabee and the ache of being alone, being without the wife and child who'd given his life meaning, shredded the last bit of his heart. Unable to think, he grabbed something-one of Sarah's good knives from the wooden block-and rushed against the person who was left. He snatched Buck away from the stove, whirled him around and slammed him up against the wall, holding the sharp edge of the knife to his vulnerable throat. Buck dropped the phone he'd been holding between his shoulder and ear and grabbed Chris' hand, not trying to force the knife away but just keeping it in place. His face was swollen with ugly black bruises. "Chris-"_

 _"Shut up!" Chris roared. "What the fuck are you doing here?"_

 _"I'm fixin' breakfast," Buck said calmly. "You want to put that knife down now before the bacon burns?"_

 _'SOB thinks I won't do it...' suddenly Buck's face vanished, replaced by the dark faceless unknown evil that had taken away all that made Chris' life good. He tightened his grip, paying no attention to the warm sticky blood that oozed over his hands. "You bastard! You killed my wife and son..."_

 _It had been two weeks since Chris woke in Buck's cubicle in ICU, shuddering from the grip of a nightmare that he quickly realized, to his horror, wasn't a nightmare at all but a memory long-buried under layers of grief and alcohol._

 _He'd held a knife to Buck's throat. Buck. His friend, his partner, the godfather of his son. The man who'd stayed beside Chris despite every provocation to turn away. The man who'd kept Chris alive and safe even from himself._

 _He'd pushed that knife into Buck's throat until the flesh parted and warm sticky blood had coated his hands._

And Buck had never said anything. Chris still didn't know what had happened afterwards, how bad the injury was or how Buck had kept it from becoming public knowledge. With the exception of quietly confirming that, yes, it had happened, Buck had refused to discuss it with him. Chris was left only with the sickening memory.

How could Buck have ever forgiven him? That his friend had, Chris was sure...but he couldn't forgive himself.

"Chris?"

Larabee looked up at Vin's voice. The tracker stood in the doorway. "There's somebody here to see you. Says his name is Natoli."

"Natoli?" Chris repeated. A smiled crossed his face. Standing up, he crossed the room to greet the man standing behind Vin. "Cap'n Nate! It's been a long time."

"Since you hijacked my intended replacement and dragooned him into the ATF?" Despite his words, the shorter man pulled Chris into a fierce hug. Over his shoulder, Chris caught the interested looks of his teammates. He turned away to introduce them. "Guys, this is Captain Natoli-Buck's old boss when he was on the Bomb Squad for the Denver PD." He pointed at his friends in turn. "Vin Tanner...Nathan Jackson... Josiah Sanchez." He pointed to JD last. "This is JD Dunne."

"Now, Mr. Dunne I've met." Natoli shot the young man a sympathetic look. "Sorry about your home, son."

"You know about the bombing?" Chris questioned. "Then you know about Buck-"

"Yes. Actually, that's why I'm here." He met Chris' eyes. "If I could have a few moments of your time...in private, Christopher?"

Chris smile vanished as he took in the other man's expression. He nodded. "Come on into my office."

 **7777777**

"I've been out of state on family business-my grandson is very ill," Natoli explained as he sat down in the chair in front of Chris' desk. He sighed in relief. "Not as young as I used to be," he said. He hefted the briefcase he carried into the chair next to him and opened it, pulling out a stack of files. "Got home early yesterday and got Buck's message. Had to call in a bunch of favors but I think I got most of what he needed."

"Buck's message?" Chris repeated.

Thumbing through the files, Natoli missed the look on Chris' face. "Bolo Orlowski. After all these years." He gave a humorless laugh. "That's one _hombre_ I'd be glad to see dead."

Chris heard that name, Bolo Orlowski, and his mind flashed back to Buck's hospital room and a semi-conscious Buck, on a respirator, trying desperately to communicate something. He'd spelled out "Bolo", leaving his friends to believe legendary bomber Bolo Orlowski had planted the bomb in Buck's apartment. But, since then, Buck had staunchly denied knowing why he'd incriminated Orlowski.

Chris felt cold all over as he numbly accepted the stack of files Natoli offered him. "Had to come downtown to get the last of them. Chris, I wanted to take them to Buck myself but I've got to leave." He glanced at his watch and made a face. "Now, actually. Have to catch a plane in two hours and you know how the airport is. You tell Buck I'll be back in town next week, if I can do anything to help on this case." The retired cop didn't seem to realize Chris wasn't responding to him at all. "And Chris, forget what I said about you hijacking Buck to the ATF. He belongs beside you. Always did, always will. Hell, the only reason he came over to my squad anyway was to keep working on the case."

Chris looked up. "What case?"

"The murder of your family-" Natoli trailed off. He shook his head. "Shit. You didn't know? I just assumed Buck would have told you a long time ago."

Chris felt as if he was outside his body, watching as he slowly shook his head. "No. No, he never told me. But that's all right. I should have guessed."

"Damn..." Natoli looked at his watch again. "Chris...I've got to go." He stood up, looking regretfully at the other man. "I wish I could stay...if Buck's got a lead on Bolo after all this time, I'd like to help. I've still got lots of contacts, even if I am retired." He closed his briefcase. "You tell Buck to get better fast, and I'll be in touch as soon as I get back."

After Natoli left, Chris sank back down in his chair, numb, his ears ringing with what he'd just heard. _'Damn. I should have known...'_ He absently leafed through the files. A name leapt out at him and he froze, then opened the file and read the whole page, his numbness fleeing before the anger pounding through his veins.

"Son of a bitch!"

Four heads popped up as Chris' roar resounded through the office. Vin half rose in his seat, but before he could stand up the door to Larabee's office flew open with such force it smashed into the wall and stuck there. Larabee stalked out, jaw set, eyes flashing ice green fire, a pile of folders in his arms.

"Chris?" JD started, eyes wide.

Chris ignored him, striding past the occupied desks like a tank rampaging through a village. His men knew better than to get in his way.

"Where are you going?" Josiah dared to ask.

Chris flung open the door to the hallway. "Hospital," he ground out. The door slammed behind him.

Left behind, four members of Team Seven stared at each other in shock.

 _tbc..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 3**

Buck shifted restlessly in his sleep, the nightmarish images coming closer. He had to get away...He had to move...

Pain tore through his battered body and he awoke with a gasp. His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for the danger that he _knew_ was lurking there. For several frozen seconds he didn't recognize his surroundings. White walls, TV mounted on the wall, pale blue curtains on the window, pulled aside to reveal a sky heavy with leaden rain clouds. Flowers, plants and stuffed animals crowded on the windowsill and the high table against the wall.

Recent memory, and searing pain, swept over him in a wave and he moaned, trying to curl his body against it. All that accomplished was to send more pain jolting through his leg, his shattered ribs, pounding into his head. He closed his eyes tightly and pressed back into the hard flat pillow, feeling sweat break out on his forehead.

 _'Damn.'_

He hated this. Hated the dreams, hated the pain, hated the hospital. Hated the drugs that eased the pain somewhat, only to leave him feeling sluggish and weak and stupid.

Most of all, he hated being helpless and trapped in this bed.

Slowly, reluctantly, the pain eased a little. He became aware that he was breathing in the rapid, shallow gasps that _everyone_ \- from his nurses to the respiratory therapists to Nathan Jackson – had warned him against, and he consciously tried to slow and deepen his breaths. The tightness in his chest didn't ease and he rubbed at it absently.

Finally opening his eyes, he focused on the clock next to the bed, smiling a little as he always did when he looked at it. JD had brought it to him, the first night after he'd been released from ICU and settled into this room for what promised to be a protracted stay. Heaven knows where the kid had found a 1970s Charlie's Angels clock, but it did cheer the room. He glanced around again; letting his eyes rest on the other items his friends had brought in to brighten the long days.

A few minutes after four. Still the quiet time of his day. He wasn't due any medication until five, although if a nurse showed up with a pain pill right about now he might not refuse it. His evening crop of visitors usually started arriving around five-thirty. Dinner came at six. The flow of visitors slowed around seven or seven-thirty, but JD and at least one other of his teammates would stay until visiting hours were over at nine, leaving only after they were assured he was ready for sleep. Sometimes one of them spent the night on a cot in the corner, but he tried to convince them not to. He'd spent enough nights on those torture devices to know just how little sleep they allowed, and his friends needed to be well rested for the job. Buck worried enough about everybody without having to worry about that too. He thought his doctor or somebody must have said something, or maybe Chris had just laid down the law, because no one had tried to stay the last few nights.

Mornings were hectic, starting around five a.m. when the vampires – the lab techs - emerged from the depths of the earth-the hospital lab-to take his blood. No one had yet given Buck a logical reason why they needed a blood sample _every_ day. _"Orders,_ " they just said tritely. Most of the techs – one of them had informed Buck she was technically a "phlebotomist" - were pretty skilled but by this time his veins were getting tired of giving up their bounty. There was one guy though, that Buck just _knew_ would be more comfortable with a machete or maybe a chain saw, than a syringe.

Buck usually dozed off after the vampires left, to be awoken again around six when the getting-ready-to-go-home night shift came banging in to take his vitals and assure themselves he hadn't expired since their last visit. Hard on their heels came the newly arrived day shift to give him his morning meds. Visiting hours didn't start until eleven but the staff turned a blind eye to the fact that Vin or Nathan almost always showed up to cajole Buck into eating some breakfast. Most of the others popped in on their way to work to say good morning as well.

Once Buck had forced down some of his meal-the food wasn't bad, he just didn't seem to have any appetite-morning rush started. Dr. Culver made rounds. Various other doctors that had something to do with his case made rounds. Residents made rounds, interns made rounds, hell, even medical _students_ made rounds! An aide showed up to give him a sponge bath-which had gone from embarrassing, to mildly enjoyable, to just part of the routine. His Occupational Therapist-a rather abrasive guy named David-showed up to supervise his shaving and combing hair. Respiratory Therapy came in to heckle him into breathing deeply, or coughing, or inhaling or exhaling into a variety of plastic torture devices. Every one of the RTs was cute, young and female, but Buck had stopped flirting with them days ago. They just made him hurt. Depending on something-Buck didn't know what factors went into it-they'd either increase his oxygen, decrease his oxygen, or sometimes decide he could go without it for a few hours.

The door would no sooner close behind the RT than the PT would bounce in. Now, Buck had to admit he did enjoy those sessions, and not just because Kia was blonde and all of twenty-six. While he was still bedfast, his physical therapy consisted of arm and leg exercises—sometimes with weights involved - and massages to keep his skin from breaking down. By the time Kia left he was usually ready for a short nap. That was the most restful sleep he got.

Most days, JD and usually Ezra would show up about the same time as his lunch tray. Ezra had a deeply ingrained belief that hospital food was inedible, so he usually smuggled "real" food in. Well, there wasn't much smuggling to it, Ezra being Ezra he just waltzed in with it and no one ever said anything. Because of the trouble he went to, and because JD would turn on the pleading puppy dog look, Buck ate better at lunch than at other meals. Still, he'd lost nearly twenty pounds since he'd been in the hospital and the staff dietician was threatening him with supplemental milkshakes.

After lunch, other members of his "rehab team" would come by: social worker, counselor, and at one-thirty the speech therapist. Buck had _no_ idea why she was involved-he could talk just fine if anyone ever bothered to listen to him-and all they ever did was play card games or maybe checkers for the half hour she was there.

Then it quieted down. He got meds and a snack at two and usually could count on being alone and undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon.

Buck reached for the controls and slowly raised the head of the bed until the strain on his healing ribs and chest was painful, then eased it back slightly. Curling one arm around his ribs, he reached out with the other and grasped the edge of the bedside table, rolling it closely to his side. He opened the drawer and pulled out the thick accordion file he'd asked Vin to retrieve from his demolished apartment. He studied the contents every afternoon, making notes on a yellow legal pad, comparing them to other notes tucked into the files. Years of notes. Years of dead ends and frustrations.

Years of sorrow and anger and guilt.

As he undid the string holding the folder closed, a file slipped out and fell to the floor, a page from within fluttering loose. He grabbed at it.

Page three of the Sarah's autopsy report. His eyes fell on one sentence in particular.

And his mind fled back through the years to that fateful morning...

 _"Uncle Buck! Uncle Buck!"_

 _Buck caught his godson in mid-air and swung the child up. "Hey there, Pard," he greeted the almost six year old. "Boy, you're growing faster than a dandelion in a cow pasture. Pretty soon you'll be wearin' my clothes!"_

 _Sarah turned around from the stove, giggling. "Buck you know you'd never share your Jimmy Buffett shirts with anyone!"_

 _Adam frowned. "Who's Jimmy Buffett?"_

 _Sarah laughed again as Buck staggered in mock-dismay. "Oh, li'l Pard...they're not raisin' you right if you have to ask that..." With Adam still in his arms he stepped forward for Sarah's quick hug. "Where's Chris?" He sat Adam down and the little boy promptly took off, yelling "Daddy! Uncle Buck's here!"_

 _"Buck, I need a favor," Sarah said quickly._

 _Buck raised his eyebrows. "Anything for a pretty lady, Sarah. You know that," he grinned. She swatted him with a dishtowel._

 _"I'm serious!" She looked quickly toward the living room and lowered her voice. "My appointment with Dr. Fulcher got postponed until six o'clock...I need you to keep Chris sidetracked. Can't you two go to dinner or something in Colorado Springs before you come home tonight?"_

 _Buck shrugged. "Guess so. You know, Sarah, he's likely to kill me when he finds out we've been keepin' this a secret!"_

 _She smiled. "You know he won't." She laid a hand on Buck's arm. "Please, Buck...it's just...after the miscarriage, I just want to be _ **sure**_ _before I tell him. He wants a little girl so badly..."__

 _Buck gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Don't you worry none, Sarah. I'll keep Detective Larabee busy tonight."_

 _It rained all the way to Colorado Springs. Buck had meant to buy new wipers but he kept forgetting except when it rained, of course. Chris needled him about that the whole trip._

 _The training session wasn't bad as those things went. At least the presenter had some experience in the field. Buck hated those classes where some guy in a three-piece suit who had never had a .457 Magnum pointed at his gut condescendingly spoke about "Positive Police Relations With The Community" or something equally mind-numbing._

 _They got out about four-thirty and went in search of windshield wipers. There was a Mexican restaurant down the street from the auto-parts store. Buck looked longingly at the inviting cantina. A couple of young beauties grinned at him, flirting, as they went in. Mindful of his promise to Sarah to delay Chris' return to Denver, Buck suggested they stop for dinner and maybe a drink._

 _"Ought to be gettin' back," Chris drawled. "You know Sarah will be keepin' dinner warm. Think she was goin' to make liver and onions, just for you."_

 _Buck managed to paste a horrified look on his face, although inwardly he was laughing. Chris never had figured out Buck and Sarah were fooling him about the liver and onions. It was a running joke that had been going on since before Sarah and Chris were married. Buck really did hate liver-so did Sarah-but they put up with it for Chris' sake._

 _"Oh, Chris," Buck said persuasively. "It's a long drive back in the rain and a man needs somethin' under his belt..." He let his eyes follow some more girls going into the cantina._

 _"Yeah, you're thinkin' about under your belt all right," Chris returned. He clapped his partner on the back. "Come on, Cowboy...can't have you wasting away, can I?"_

 _Buck had a good time, even though he didn't drink. He never needed alcohol to give him a high when there were pretty ladies around. Still he let Chris drag him out around seven-thirty. Chris fell asleep on the trip back and Buck kept the radio low, humming along under his breath. The miles sped by and almost before he knew it he was exiting the highway and on the road to Chris' ranch._

 _As he drove, he thought about the new baby. Sarah wanted a girl but Buck knew his friends would love whatever it was. He would too. Chris, Sarah, Adam, and now this new baby-they were Buck's family. The family he'd always wanted growing up the bastard son of a prostitute. Buck loved his mother, and knew she'd done a damn good job of raising him, but he'd always imagined what it must be like to be part of a _ **real**_ _family. Then with his mother's murder he'd been alone. A loneliness that no woman he'd dated had ever managed to heal-__

 _What the hell-?_

 _He saw the lights first. Swirling beams of red and blue shining eerily through the mist. Cars skewed all over the roadway. A fire truck. Ambulance. Police cars..._

 _'Oh, God...'_

 _A pick-up truck half in the ditch on the side of the road. Burned, still smoldering._

 _He stomped on the brakes, heard a voice keening "God no! God no!" and only later realize it was his own voice._

 _He saw paramedics carrying a gurney to the ambulance. A tiny body wrapped in the bright yellow casualty blanket. Ghost-like figures holding IV bottles aloft..._

 _There was a buzzing in his ears. Words. Chris' voice..."Jesus, Buck, what the hell-"_

 _'Oh God. Please, no, please...don't let it be...' Buck forced himself to look at Chris. "Chris-" he said brokenly._

 _...The blood draining from Chris' face as he saw what Buck prayed so desperately was a nightmare..._

 _The next hours were a blur of horror. Buck never could remember how he got from there to the hospital. His next clear memory was hours later, standing outside the cubicle in the burn ward, watching his best friend and the child he loved as his own._

 _Knowing Sarah was dead. Sarah and the child she'd carried within her._

 _Knowing it was his fault. He'd stalled to stay later in Colorado Springs. If he'd driven straight home..._

 _His fault. His fault._

"You son of a bitch!"

Startled, Buck looked up.

A livid Chris Larabee stood in the doorway of his hospital room.

Visitation at the county jail was two to four p.m., three afternoons a week.

Visitation for the public, that is. Lawyers for those incarcerated in the jail could see their clients any time between eight and five, Monday through Friday.

Marcus Hoyt's long-time attorney-a man even _he_ thought of as a "slimeball", could no longer practice law in the state of Colorado, as he was awaiting sentencing on a charge of hindering prosecution. That was a plea-bargain from the much more serious charge of conspiracy to commit murder-arising from his admission that he'd been the one to procure the real names of the two undercover ATF agents who had infiltrated Hoyt's organization.

Hoyt was pissed at the slimeball. The man had enjoyed a hefty retainer all these years and the one time he was threatened with charges, he fell apart and started confessing so fast the stenographers could barely get it all down. Slimeball was a dead man.

And he was pretty pissed off as well at the judge who'd decided that, since Slimeball had admittedly been involved in a criminal act, he'd been acting as a co-conspirator and not as a lawyer, and therefore attorney-client privilege did not apply. Everything Hoyt had ever divulged to his erstwhile attorney could now be used against him.

He'd had to find a new attorney, which was a lot harder a task than he'd thought it would be. Eventually though, Darla McGivens had agreed to take his case. The crusty sixty-year-old had somehow made a successful career defending white-collar criminals even though she looked, spoke and acted like a pillar of rectitude.

Needless to say, Hoyt wasn't depending on his attorney to get him out of the mess he found himself in.

Although his bail had been revoked and he was stuck in the county jail until his trial (or until his lawyer could find a more sympathetic judge) most of his people were still free. One-his long time friend and right-hand man, Tom Bales-visited him like clockwork, every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday at two-thirty.

This particular day Marcus was especially anxious for his old friend's visit. Not because he was worried about the fate of the three main witnesses against him-Slimeball the Attorney, and Special Agents Buck Wilmington and Ezra Standish. He had every faith that those little problems would be taken care of, and soon.

No, there was someone else he was worried about.

"Have you been able to find Sarah?" His tone was anxious.

Bales slowly shook his head. "She cleaned out the safe deposit box at First Federal the same day she sold her car."

Hoyt nodded. That box contained the fake identification papers and documents he'd set up for Sarah long ago just in case something like this happened. She didn't know much about his business dealings but he'd pounded into her head to use another identity if needed. But, he had no way of knowing which identity she was using now. The bank accounts in each name hadn't been touched.

"If she talks to the Feds-" Bales started.

"She won't," Hoyt snapped. "That Wilmington conned her-used her. But she's loyal to me."

Bales didn't look convinced, but he shrugged. "We've got people on the inside. She makes a move toward the Feds or the DA, I'll hear about it."

Looking back later, Chris realized it was sheer luck-or maybe the intervention of a benign Deity-that kept him from causing an accident on the way to University Medical Center. Traffic across town was sluggish and the periodically heavy rainfall throughout the day had knocked out traffic signals and left intersections flooded.

Chris paid no attention to any of it. His head throbbed with the stabbing tension headache that had started that night when both Ezra and Buck were on life support and had never completely abated since.

He kept seeing Buck. Buck, dead-killed by an assassin as he lay helpless in his hospital bed.

And other visions crowded him-visions of the past, fragments of conversations, memories-swirled around him.

 _...Rain pelting against the windshield of Buck's pickup as he looked out to see the black body bag being loaded into the Coroner's wagon..._

 _...Adam, screaming in agony in the burn ward...then finally, taking his last breath and slipping away from his tortured body..._

 _...Pressing the sharp blade of the knife into Buck's throat, feeling the warm blood ooze over his own fingers..._

 _...Buck's battered body on life support..._

 _... "Damn it Buck, I cut your throat with a fucking knife! How could that be an accident?"..._

He slammed the Ram's door, not even noticing he'd parked in a handicapped space, and strode through the pneumatic doors into the hospital lobby. People turned to stare, then prudently stepped out of his way.

Fear and fury built with every step, pounding in time with his head.

He was off the elevator before the doors fully opened, stomping past the nurses' station, not even hearing the greetings by the women there. Tension bore knots in his temple and the base of his skull as he turned right and went down the short hallway. There was no guard on the door. The guards had been taken off because with Hoyt in jail everyone had assumed the danger to Buck was over.

God, how stupid and wrong they'd been...

He shoved open the door to room 2246, taking one look inside. Buck, his face pale and eyes smudged with dark shadows, looked up in surprise.

Alive. Buck was alive. He was safe. Chris felt almost dizzy with relief.

Then fear and relief were swept away in a rising tide of anger.

"You son of a bitch!"

 _tbc..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 4**

The two of them stared at each other, Chris' words still ringing in the room.

"Hello to you, too," Buck said finally, his face pale as milk. Dark shadows smudged under his eyes. He looked at the pile of folders in Chris' arms. "What's all that?" Not taking his eyes from his old friend, he closed the manila folder in front of him and tried to slide it into the accordion file.

Chris ignored his question. "Who set the bomb?"

Buck stared at him, then looked away. "I told you, I don't know-"

"Stop lying to me, damn it!" Chris hissed. He slammed the folders down on the foot of the bed; two or three fell to the ground but he ignored them. "Cap'n Nate came to see me today," he said sarcastically. "He brought the information you requested." He slapped the folders, causing a couple more to slide to the floor. "All the information he could find about Bolo Orlowski."

Buck's face, if possible, went even paler. "Why'd he bring it to you?" he questioned quietly.

"I suppose because it never dawned on him you'd be keeping an investigation into your own attempted murder a secret!" Chris seethed. He couldn't stay still; he stalked over to the window and stared out at the darkening hospital grounds. "Damn it, Buck. You _lied_ in an official investigation." He spun around, his green eyes blazing fire. "You lied to me! Hell, all of a sudden you're lying to me about everything!"

"I didn't lie to you," Buck protested, an edge of irritation in his voice. "I said I didn't know. And I _don't_ know-"

"Obviously, you _do_ know!" Chris picked up one of the files and flung it at the wall next to the bed. Papers fluttered out, some landing on the bed and some on the floor. "You spelled out Bolo Orlowski's name. Then you lied and said you didn't even remember doing it. Then you contact your old boss on the Bomb Squad and ask him for all the information he can get on Orlowski, but you don't bother to tell me or any of your teammates?" Chris' anger blazed again, white hot and explosive. "Damn it, Buck! You _know_ Orlowski always finishes his jobs...you're in danger here and hell! We don't even have a guard on your door!"

Silence, brittle as shards of glass, encased the room.

Chris let out his breath in a deep sigh. He felt old suddenly, and so tired. "Just tell me why you lied to me," he pleaded.

Buck looked away. He shook his head. "I can't," he whispered almost soundlessly.

"Why?" Chris exploded. "Damn it Buck, what is wrong with you?"

"It's my life," Buck said, still not meeting Chris' eyes.

If Buck had tried to think of something that would piss Chris off he couldn't have succeeded as well as he did. " _Your life?"_ Chris hissed. "You selfish bastard, how dare you say it's just _your life?_ If Bolo comes after you he comes after all of us, damn it!" His head pounded. _'Damn, doesn't he realize what his death would do to-'_ Chris cut the thought off. He wouldn't even think about Buck's death. He couldn't.

Fury raced through his veins, the same rage that had gripped him in those dark days after Sarah's death.

Buck swallowed hard and Chris suddenly noticed that thin white scar on his neck. That vision-of his own hands pressing the blade into Buck's neck-rose up before his eyes and he spit his next words out without thinking, "I don't want to lose anyone else because of-"

Too late, he saw the blood drain from Buck's face; saw him recoil against the pillows as if he'd been slapped. Chris stopped, his thought incomplete, too late realizing how Buck would take it.

"Get out," Buck whispered.

"Buck." Chilled by the look on his friend's face, stricken with remorse for his own angry words, Chris took a step toward the bed.

"Get OUT!" Buck yelled hoarsely, snatching the water pitcher off the bedside table and heaving it at Chris. Larabee ducked; the plastic pitcher hit the wall behind him and water and ice splattered on the floor. Buck's face crumpled in agony and he collapsed, curling around his injured side.

"Buck," Chris said again, pleadingly. He heard a sound behind him and reacted instinctively to the danger threatening his friend; he whirled around, hand automatically going to his gun.

Vin Tanner and JD Dunne stood in the doorway.

 **7777777  
**  
For what seemed like an eternity everyone remained frozen where they stood. Then, JD's eyes darkened with anger and he opened his mouth.

"Don't, JD," Buck said faintly. He was still curled awkwardly around his side in the bed, great drops of sweat standing out on his forehead, gasping for air.

"Buck-"

"Stay out of it!" The snap in Buck's voice cost him dearly; he followed it up with a choked gasp that drew the concerned attention of all three of his friends.

"Bucklin-" Vin started toward the bed.

"What is going on in here?" One of the nurses-Sandy, Chris thought-was standing behind JD in the doorway. She was tall—as tall as Chris-and she looked over JD's head toward her patient. Her face changed when she recognized his distressed condition. "OK, all of you, out. Now!" Her voice was crisp as she squeezed past JD and moved swiftly to the bed. She untangled the oxygen tubing from where it was wrapped around the controls and turned it on before sliding the greenish canula into Buck's nostrils. Looking up, she seemed surprised that none of them had moved. "Gentlemen, you need to leave. I'm going to get Mr. Wilmington something for pain and then I'm paging his doctor. You can wait down the hall-I trust you all remember where the waiting room is?"

JD's back stiffened. "I'm not leaving-"

Chris caught Vin's eye and signaled to the door. Vin hesitated, then took JD's arm and gently guided him out of the room. "Come on, Kid, let's give her some room."

As soon as the door whispered closed behind them, JD tore his arm free and whirled around to glare at Chris. "What the hell were you doing?"

If JD Dunne had a hero in this world, it was Chris Larabee. The young computer genius had idolized the darkly dressed ATF agent before he'd ever met him. Every night he thanked God that Larabee had allowed him into the coveted position in Denver Team Seven. He also prayed that Larabee should never have occasion to regret his choice. In the three years he'd been part of the team, he'd never once questioned his hero-well, at least not within his hearing.

But now the eyes that he fixed on the older man were dark with rage, disappointment, sorrow. He slid in front of Larabee as if he could use his body to protect Buck from the team leader.

Buck wasn't JD's hero. Buck was much more than that. Since the day they'd met, Buck had been big brother, best friend, and-at times-surrogate parent to a young man who'd had to grow up much too fast. Team Seven was a family, no one ever denied that, but Buck Wilmington was the stable foundation upon which JD Dunne's world was built.

And he'd be damned if anyone would hurt his brother and get away with it. Even Chris Larabee.

Chris rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly against both the pounding headache and the sight of his friends. He couldn't deal with this now, couldn't deal with JD, couldn't deal with the memories, with his anger. With the sick churning guilt and fear in his gut. He couldn't even bring himself to look at Vin's face, afraid of what he'd see.

"I want 24-7 protection on Buck," he sighed wearily, opening his eyes.

JD's expression changed; he suddenly looked confused, unsure. "What..."

Chris ignored him. He finally made eye contact with Vin. "Call it in...an alert on a suspect named Bolo Orlowski. Wanted in the attempted murder of a federal agent." Then he turned and headed for the elevator.

He needed a drink.

Left behind, JD and Vin stared at each other. "What the heck was that all about?" JD asked.

Vin didn't have an answer.

 **7777777**

"Buck, what the heck is going on?" JD demanded an hour later.

Buck blinked at him tiredly. He'd obviously been sedated and he was back on oxygen. It didn't seem to help his color though, he was still almost as pale as the pillowcase his head rested upon.

Vin was gathering up all the loose papers on the floor. He stopped, still crouched down, and studied one of the typewritten pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Where's Chris?" Buck asked faintly.

"Who knows?" JD snapped. "He took off out of here like the demons of Hell were on his heels."

"You've been...listening' too much to Josiah, kid." Buck closed his eyes.

"He's runnin' from demons of some kind, I reckon," Vin said quietly.

JD sat down in the chair at the head of the bed. He was still pretty upset. "Chris shouldn't have-"

"Stay out of it, JD." Buck opened his eyes but didn't make eye contact with JD, instead staring up at the ceiling. His voice dragged with exhaustion and the effects of the meds. "Chris is your friend, hell, he's your boss. This is between him and me. I don't want you in the middle. Please!"

JD heard the plea in Buck's voice but he was still too angry to back down. "I'm not staying out of it, Buck! Chris had _no_ right-!"

"Chris had _every_ right," Buck sighed. He leaned back. "Hell, I'm damn lucky he didn't-do more than yell."

JD stopped, mouth open. "What?"

Vin stood up, the files stacked in his hands. "So it was Bolo Orlowski that set the bomb?"

"What?" JD asked again, puzzled.

Buck sighed again, then coughed, tightening his face against the pain. He was quiet for a few minutes, staring unseeingly out the darkened window.

"Buck?" Vin prompted gently.

"Bolo Orlowski is suspected in over a hundred murders. Demolitions-bombs. Big ones, little ones...but his specialty is a bomb that just destroys a portion of an area. Like a room in a house or a..." he stopped, seemed to change his mind about what he was saying. He met Vin's eyes. "We investigated...I don't know, maybe ten or twelve murders that we figured were his work. Never could get a good description of him. We'd interview witnesses and they'd say there'd been a repairman, or a pizza delivery guy, or something, around right about the time the bomb was probably planted. He just...blends in." He laughed humorlessly. "I 'member one woman...she actually described him as havin' _'hair colored hair and eye colored eyes.'_ " His voice was getting weaker and he paused, breathing heavily through the canula, before he went on:

"Cap'n Nate...he was head of the bomb squad here for years. He kind of made a hobby of studying Bolo-his patterns, his M.O. Most explosive experts have a signature, you know?" He looked at Vin, who nodded his head. "Bolo's signature was the fuse to the dentonator on his bombs. He used three strands of wire-red, black and yellow, always in that sequence-curled around each other and formed in a loop." He looked up at the ceiling. "Looks like a little hangman's noose," he finished quietly.

JD shook his head. "But...I checked the reports. There wasn't anything left of the detonator at our place-"

"I know," Buck said.

Silence.

"You saw it, didn't you?" It wasn't really a question.

Buck looked at Vin and nodded. "I went upstairs, and opened that door...and I saw it. I remember yellin' for you...and then, lights out. But I know what I saw. Bolo set that bomb."

JD's eyes widened. "Then you _lied_ when you said you didn't know..." he blurted out accusingly.

Buck glanced at him, then looked away. "Yeah, kid. I lied."

The hurt and betrayal on JD's face would have been visible to a blind man. "Why?"

Buck folded his arms tightly across his chest and closed his eyes. "I can't tell you that, JD."

"Thanks a lot for your patience, Agent Standish."

Ezra managed to mutter something that must have sounded vaguely polite. He was feeling anything but courteous at this point. It was almost midnight and he'd been closeted with Assistant District Attorney Ira Berman since four in the afternoon. He was tired of the short, balding man and highly annoyed that what had been promised as a short meeting _"Just to go over a few questions about your testimony on the Hoyt case"_ had stretched into an eight-hour marathon.

As if he'd read Ezra's mind, Berman hurried to say, "I am sorry this took so long, but at least you got dinner out of the deal."

Ezra's poker face didn't slip. "I do appreciate your generosity in paying for my evening repast, Mr. Berman." He mentally added, _'And the next time I'm in the mood for a dry, tasteless egg salad sandwich from a vending machine, I'll be sure to contact you.'_

"Hoyt's the biggest case I've ever handled," Berman confessed as they stepped out of the elevator into the underground parking garage. "With that prelim coming up next week, I just wanted to make sure I knew your testimony."

 _'Dear God in Heaven. Why assign a case of this magnitude to an untried neophyte?'_ Ezra thought to himself. Not for the first time he wondered what jockeying behind the scenes had resulted in the federal authorities ceding jurisdiction to the local district attorney. The weapons charges against Marcus Hoyt alone should have been enough to warrant federal prosecution, not to mention attempted murder of not one, but _two_ federal agents.

Not that it looked like Hoyt was ever going to stand trial on the latter charge.

Which was pissing Ezra off, to put it bluntly. He knew enough about the law-he hadn't been sleeping through those classes at the University of Georgia or Harvard, even if he had opted for an MBA instead of a law degree-to realize the case regarding his own attempted murder was weak and mostly circumstantial. But Yvette Morales was willing to testify that Marcus Hoyt had ordered her to try to kill Buck in the hospital. She didn't have any reason to lie about it-Chris had caught her in the act red-handed, she was going to prison no matter what-but yet Berman, citing, "lack of corroboration" wanted to drop the attempted murder charges.

 _'I'm willing to wager Mr. Larabee doesn't know about this yet.'_ Ezra satisfied himself with the thought of what Berman would look like after he was caught in the path of the tornado known as The Wrath of Christopher Larabee.

"Agent Standish, there is one other thing I needed to discuss with you..."

Ezra stopped dead and turned to stare at the other man. "Excuse me? You've had me incarcerated in your cubicle of an office for eight hours, going over every report either I or Agent Wilmington wrote during the entire eleven weeks we were undercover in Hoyt's organization...what else can there possibly be to discuss?"

"Sarah Bryant."

Alarm bells shrieked in Ezra's mind. He lifted a cool eyebrow. "Mr. Hoyt's niece. What about her?"

"I understand she was around during the majority of the time you and Wilmington were undercover in the organization."

"She was here on a visit during part of the time," Ezra conceded.

Berman stopped, forcing Ezra to stop as well. "But you rarely mention her in your reports. And Mr. Wilmington _never_ mentions her in _his_ reports.

Ezra sighed, making a show of switching his briefcase to his other hand. "We were investigating Marcus Hoyt, not his niece. Actually, she's not even _his_ niece."

"I know who she is." Berman's eyes narrowed. "She's his dead wife's niece. Hoyt's supported her most of her life."

"And this is significant because...?" Ezra asked coolly.

"I just wondered why there's no more mention of her than there is."

Ezra looked around, spotting his Jag in the distance where he'd left it tucked in a corner spot. "Because there wasn't anything to justify such discourse, Mr. Berman. She was only peripherally involved; there was no evidence to indicate she was even aware of her uncle's more nefarious undertakings. Now, if you'll excuse me, it is late and I am quite fatigued. No doubt my recent indisposition catching up to me." He started towards his car, reaching into his pocket for his keys.

"I want to talk with her. She might have something we can use."

Ezra stopped but didn't turn around. "Interviewing witnesses is entirely within your purview, Mr. Berman. You hardly need my permission."

"I need to know where she is."

Ezra did turn around this time. "I have no idea." His voice was smooth as silk.

Berman looked incredulous. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Believe what you will. I have no reason to tell you an untruth." Ezra turned his back on the irritating man.

"Well, then, I'll just have to head over to the hospital tomorrow. See if Wilmington is more forthcoming."

"Be my guest, Mr. Berman." Ezra shrugged. "If you doubt the veracity of my words, possibly Mr. Wilmington can convince you. However, if you want my advice, save yourself the trip. Mr. Wilmington doesn't know anything more than he put in his report...And our teammates-to say nothing of Agent Larabee-are likely to be _very_ unhappy if you upset or otherwise agitate Mr. Wilmington in this point of his recuperation."

Ezra heard Berman swear behind him but he didn't turn around again. He'd wasted quite enough time with this man for one day. He picked up his pace as he headed toward his car. He'd skated a mighty fine line with the truth the last few minutes, but in one thing he'd been completely honest: he _was_ exhausted.

Events happened too quickly.

He heard a screech of tires, loud and reverberating in the almost-empty garage. Berman yelled behind him, and he whirled...

A low, dark car, rushing directly toward him.

His legs frozen, glued to the ground.

His terrified mind coming on-line with a rush of adrenaline **. MOVE!**

A desperate leap-

The front of the car clipped him, spinning him sideways. Seeing the hard concrete floor rush up to meet him...

He blacked out before he felt the impact.

 _tbc..._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Sorry I haven't updated for a few days. Some of you know I'm away from home taking care of my mom right now. Things got a little hectic with her caregiver calling in sick etc so I got a few days behind.**

 **Part 5**

It was late, well after midnight. The house was quiet, but lights gleamed from the living room window as well as from the small bedroom JD had been using for the last two weeks.

The lights of Chris' Ram briefly illuminated the other vehicles in the circle drive outside the kitchen-Vin's battered Jeep, and Buck's pickup that JD had driven to work that morning. Chris felt a thrill of alarm. If both Vin and JD were here, who was guarding Buck?

He took the three back steps in one leap and came through the mudroom into the kitchen. One light burned over the stove, enough illumination for him to see Vin Tanner sitting at the round oak table by the window. "Who's with Buck?" Chris asked immediately, eschewing any other greeting.

"Josiah's parked on a chair outside his room," Vin answered promptly.

Chris relaxed. He should have realized Vin would have made sure Buck was guarded-among the last words he'd spoken to the sharpshooter had been that he wanted 24-7 protection on Buck. Whether or not he understood why it was needed, Vin would make sure it was done.

The kitchen smelled of Chinese food. Chris inhaled deeply and his stomach clamored, reminding him all he'd had to eat since lunch was a handful of stale peanuts at one of the bars he'd stopped in. He detoured by the refrigerator. There were a couple cardboard cartons from Oriental Pearl restaurant on the middle shelf but he pushed them aside and rummaged for the leftover roast beef, mustard and mayonnaise.

"Invited myself over for the night," Vin drawled.

Chris nodded and turned back to assembling his sandwich. "Probably a good thing. JD might kill me otherwise." He put the lid back on the mayonnaise jar and replaced it in the refrigerator, looking up to catch Vin's smirk.

"Don't think he plans to kill you. Hurt you bad, maybe."

"Reckon I deserve that." Carrying his sandwich, wrapped in a paper towel, and a bottle of beer, Chris passed Vin and headed to the sofa in the living room. The TV was tuned to CMT with the volume low. Diablo, Chris' aging Labrador, sprawled in front of the easy chair, feet twitching as he dreamed. Chris dropped onto the sofa, watching the dog. Sure enough, in less than a minute Diablo sniffed deeply, his eyes popped open, and he looked around and identified his person. Wagging his tail happily, the old dog climbed to his feet and headed for Chris. Larabee offered the dog a bite of meat. "Nothing wrong with your nose, is there, boy?"

He looked up to see Vin leaning on the door jamb giving him a funny look. "I'm not drunk, Cowboy."

Vin nodded. "Noticed that."

"Not for lack of trying," Chris said drily. He'd been in a half dozen bars since leaving the hospital, ordering whiskey in each one. Somehow after one sip-hell a couple of times after just a sniff-he'd been unable to drink. "Not going to be able to drown _this_ memory." He took a bite of the sandwich, chewed, and washed it down with a gulp of beer. "Where's JD?"

"In his room."

"How'd you get him to come back here?"

" _I_ didn't. Buck told him to stay out of the middle of you two fussin'. And then Dr. Culver restricted Buck's visitation tonight."

Chris looked up, feeling a sick churning in his stomach threatening to expel the few bites of sandwich. "What? Why? Is he all right?"

Vin shrugged as he dropped into the recliner across from Chris. "He's hurtin'. And the doc said he's been runnin' a low-grade fever all day." He paused, studying Chris' face. "Not your fault."

Chris snorted. "The hell it's not!"

Silence stretched between them.

"Want to tell me what's going on?" Vin finally asked. "You've had something stuck in your craw for days now."

Chris lost his appetite. He placed the sandwich on the coffee table. Diablo wagged his bony tail happily and started sniffing toward the food. Gently, Chris nudged the old dog back with the side of his foot. "What'd Buck say about it?" he asked, not meeting Vin's eyes.

It was Vin's turn to snort. "Hell, you know better than that, Chris. Buck's not goin' to talk about what's goin' on 'tween the two of you. He told us why he figured Bolo set the bomb. And he told JD to stay out of the middle. That's it."

"How _does_ he know Bolo Orlowski set the bomb?" Chris mentally kicked himself; he'd been so busy fighting his anger and fear that he'd never thought to ask Buck that question.

Vin explained about what Buck had called "Bolo's signature", and how Buck was sure he'd seen the trademark "hangman's noose" just before the bomb exploded. "Buck seems pretty damn sure," he finished.

Chris frowned. The idea of a hangman's noose of twisted red, black and yellow wire teased at the back of his mind. It seemed so familiar, as if he knew it-or _should_ know it.

"Still doesn't explain what's been bothering you lately," Vin prodded. "It's somethin' more than Buck being hurt."

Chris surged to his feet, turned and stared out the window into the night. "He lied, Vin-"

"Yeah," Vin agreed quietly. "And Buck wouldn't do that unless he had a damn good reason. But whatever's got you so riled up happened long before Natoli came by today."

Chris sighed, one hand absently reaching out to massage the tension from his head. "You ever notice that scar on Buck's neck?" he asked suddenly.

"Yeah. Looks like a slice of some kind. Straight edged razor, maybe."

"Knife," Chris almost whispered. "A French boning knife." He continued to stare out the window. "Sarah took this class at Williams-Sonoma a year or so before-" he trailed off. "Whole point of the thing was to sell some high-dollar set of knives, but she got a kick out of the class. She just _knew_ I was going to buy her that set of knives for Christmas..." He smiled sadly, remembering that last Christmas they'd had as a family.

"Did you?" Vin asked.

"Nah. Buck did. Said any man who got his wife _knives_ for Christmas was just asking for..." Chris finally turned around. "Ironic as hell, when you think about it."

Vin didn't say anything, but the silence was expectant.

Chris dropped back onto the couch, automatically reaching out to stroke Diablo's head as the big dog thrust it onto his lap. "That day that Yvette Morales tried to kill Buck-earlier, I dozed off for a few minutes. Had a dream..." he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Saw myself shoving Buck against the wall here in the kitchen. Then, his face changed-wasn't Buck anymore-" he broke off. "Hell, I don't know what I was thinking. I grabbed the knife and I...I..."

Silence again, broken by Diablo's sleepy sighs as the dog thumped onto the floor. Chris couldn't look at Vin. Didn't dare to.

"Guess it wasn't a dream, after all?" Vin said gently.

Chris shook his head. "Nope. It happened. Buck admitted that much."

"I'm guessin' you were drunk or hung over?" Vin prodded.

"Yeah, guess I was. But what the hell difference does that make?" Chris exploded. "I cut him, Vin. I could have _killed_ him!"

The phone rang. Chris threw a panicked look at the clock. "Damn," he breathed, grabbing the receiver. _'If Buck's worse...'_

It was a doctor, all right, but not one from University Medical Center.

"Chris? Lauren."

Larabee's old friend Lauren Murray was the chief physician for Emergency Services at Four Corner-Mercy Hospital-and the de facto doctor for most of Team Seven. For her to be calling at this hour could only mean one thing.

"What's happened?" he barked into the phone. "Who?"

"Ezra Standish."

JD tossed restlessly, kicking off the blankets, then immediately pulling them up again as the breeze from the open window chilled his flesh. He'd flung the window open as soon as he'd walked into his room, hoping the fresh air would clear his head.

He smiled bitterly in the darkness as he realized he'd thought of it as "his room". It wasn't. His room-hell, his whole home-was in shambles forty miles away.

But in a way Chris' ranch always seemed like home, too. He knew Buck thought of it that way-a legacy of a time when Chris, and his wife and son, had been Buck's only family...

JD let out his breath in a long sigh, turning over again in the twin bed. _Adam's bed_. Adam's _room_. Buck and Chris still called it that, years after the child was gone. It looked different now, JD admitted. Sometime in the last three years, since Team Seven was formed, Chris had gradually packed away Adam's toys. One weekend the whole team had been invited over for a "redecorating party". They'd steamed off the cowboy and Indians wallpaper and painted the walls a soft green; hung new curtains that matched the bedspread. Funny thing, Chris had invited them all over that weekend but Chris wasn't there. He'd gone off to Washington for a seminar. JD had never quite understood the timing of that. Buck had been there though-laughing and joking but somehow his smile didn't seem as bright as usual and his dark blue eyes were sad.

Looking back now, JD realized Chris had known it was time to pack away the memories of his little boy but hadn't been able to do it himself. It had fallen on his oldest friend-Adam's godfather-to orchestrate the event. Chris had been appreciative of their efforts when he'd returned home, but JD had noticed him looking at the refurbished room with the same sadness Buck had shown all weekend.

JD turned restlessly again. He didn't _want_ to feel sorry for Chris. He was mad at him. How dare Chris talk to Buck the way he had tonight at the hospital? Buck was _sick_ , damn it! He'd almost died-more than once. Even now, two weeks after the bombing, he was still on IVs and oxygen and monitors. He was in constant pain-JD knew it even if Buck tried to hide it-and...and...

JD reached over and turned on the lamp. He scrunched the pillows up against the headboard and sat up, elbows on knees, hands supporting his head. He remembered the scene earlier that evening:

 _After Buck had admitted lying in the investigation, he had simply shut down. No matter what Vin said or JD said, Buck wouldn't answer them. Finally, Vin had muttered an excuse about making some phone calls and left the room._

 _JD was so confused he couldn't even sort out his feelings. He was mad at Buck for lying to him-as well as to everyone else-but his anger was tempered by his worry for his best friend._

 _No such concern softened his rage at Chris Larabee. How **dare**_ _their leader yell at Buck for_ _ **any**_ _reason right now! Okay, so Chris thought Buck might be in danger-that was_ _ **no**_ _excuse for the way he'd acted._

 _Now JD was alone with his best friend. He struggled to get his emotions under control, to say something._

 _Buck beat him to it. "You'd better wipe that look off your face, Kid," Buck said tiredly. He shifted slightly and a wince of pain, quickly hidden, crossed his face._

 _"He doesn't have any right to talk to you like that!" JD exploded, his throat so tight he could barely squeeze out the words._

 _Buck reached out and grabbed his arm. "Let it go, Kid." His voice was intense. "I mean it, JD. Stay out of it."_

 _"Buck-"_

 _"JD." Buck leaned against the pillows and breathed deeply for a few minutes. When he went on his voice was noticeably weaker. "Chris is your friend. And your boss." He forced a smile. "And right now, your roommate."_

 _ **You're**_ _my friend!_ _ **And**_ _my roommate. I won't let-"_

 _"JD!" There was a tone in Buck's voice JD had never heard before._ _" **Let. It. Go**_ _. Chris's got his reasons for sayin' what he says." His fingers tightened on JD's wrist. "Promise me you won't try to get in the middle of this."_

 _JD wanted to protest, but with Buck's eyes fixed on his-pleading for him to agree-he couldn't. But he couldn't promise either. He just nodded. It wasn't enough and Buck repeated, "Promise?"_

 _JD let out his breath and some of his anger in a big sigh. "OK. But I'm promising 'cause **you**_ _asked, not cause I'm afraid of the great Chris Larabee."_

 _Buck managed a smile. "Hell, Kid, there's no shame bein' scared of Chris. He can be one scary hombre when he wants."_

 _"Are you scared of him?" JD honestly hadn't meant to ask that aloud, but he did._

 _Buck's face changed, the expressions crossing it so quickly JD couldn't identify them. Oddly enough the one left was sadness. Deep sadness. He just shook his head. "Not anymore," he whispered._

 _The door opened then and the aide entered with Buck's dinner tray. The next few minutes were a bustle of clearing the bedside table off, uncovering the plate and arranging the things so Buck could reach them. The aide raised the head of the bed and JD helped her situate Buck, supporting him with pillows and trying to ignore the beads of sweat that popped out on his forehead._

 _"Try to eat everything this time, Mr. Wilmington," she cajoled._

 _"Why, darlin', how can I not when you ask so sweet? But I thought I told you to call me Buck."_

 _It was such a pale imitation of Buck's usual lady killer charm that JD almost wanted to cry. Then the girl was gone and JD pulled the chair up close to the bed, ready to coax and prod Buck into eating. That was so totally strange. Buck had been hurt before but it never seemed to affect his appetite. But the weight was melting off of him since the bombing, and it was rare that he cleaned his plate._

 _Tonight was no exception. Buck played with his mashed potatoes and meatloaf-not really eating but moving the stuff around on the plate, much like Ezra did when he was on one of his periodic hunger strikes-before just pushing the tray away and leaning back on his pillows. His face was pale but there were hectic red circles on his cheekbones. JD frowned and reached out to touch Buck's forehead before the older man could move away. The warmth under his fingers made him jump up with a curse. "Buck, you've got a fever!"_

 _"Had one all day, kid. Nothin' to worry about," Buck answered tiredly, closing his eyes._

 _JD worried nonetheless...all the more so a few minutes later when the nurse came in to take Buck's vitals. Her face creased in a frown as she studied the thermometer reading. She left for a few minutes and when she came back the resident on call was with her. They shooed JD out while they examined Buck._

 _Vin was nowhere to be found. JD paced up and down the waiting area, never out of sight of Buck's door. Josiah and Nathan saw him there as they came down the corridor. A few minutes later Vin showed up. JD was a nervous wreck by the time the nurse came out and told them she'd spoken to Dr. Culver on the phone and Buck was to have no visitors until the next morning._

 _"What's wrong with him?" JD demanded heatedly._

 _"Probably nothing too serious," the nurse replied with a supposedly reassuring smile that didn't reassure JD in the least._

 _JD wanted to stay the night. Maybe he couldn't be with Buck but he could sleep outside the door in a chair. Chris had said not to leave Buck unguarded! But he was outvoted. Josiah said he'd stay, at least until the police guard arrived and probably for the whole night. JD flatly refused to leave. "I can sleep in the waiting room," he argued. Hell the way he felt right now he wasn't sure he_ _**wanted**_ _to be under the same roof with Chris Larabee._

 _"JD, if Buck knows you're here he won't rest," Nathan pointed out patiently._

 _Well, that was true enough. Finally JD let himself be persuaded to head back to Chris' place for the night. He was unbelievably relieved when Vin announced he was going to spend the night there too. Otherwise-promise to Buck be damned-he'd have probably belted Chris right in the jaw._

He knew Chris was home-the Ram's headlights had flashed against the windows-and he could hear a low murmur of voices from the main room of the house. He thought briefly about getting up and getting something to drink but he'd have to walk through the living room and he really, _really_ wasn't in the mood to see Chris.

The phone rang

Startled, JD looked over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. One twenty-three. Not a time when Chris normally got phone calls unless-

 _'Oh, no!'_

Buck!

JD jumped out of bed and was grabbing the jeans he'd worn that day, even before the door swung open to reveal Vin. JD could tell just by looking at him it was bad news. "Buck?" he asked breathlessly.

Vin shook his head. "No. Ezra." He took a deep breath. "There was some kind of accident when he was leavin' the DA's. He's in the ER at Four Corners."

They took Chris' truck because it was behind the other two vehicles, but Vin drove. JD looked ready to drop and as for Chris, he was too tense and his face was lined with exhaustion.

The trip from Chris' ranch on the outskirts of Denver to FC-M Hospital normally took fifty minutes, traffic lights being favorable. Vin made it in a little under thirty. It helped that the rain had finally stopped.

As the three of them quickly made their way to the Emergency entrance, Chris' eyes were caught by a large figure wearing a heavy Denver PD jacket. Sgt Cade Hamilton leaned against a pillar, smoking a cigarette and watching them unblinkingly.

Chris stopped. "Go on in," he told Vin and JD. "I'll be there in a minute."

Vin glanced from his friend to the policeman, then he nodded. He touched JD's shoulder to hurry him along.

Chris took a deep breath as he approached the sergeant, savoring the tinge of smoke in the rain-damp air. He'd quit smoking when Adam was born.

There'd been plenty of times he'd given serious consideration to starting again.

Hamilton flicked the glowing butt away. "Larabee."

"Sergeant," Chris returned. He cocked his head. "Seem to make a habit of running into you outside hospitals."

The cop snorted. "Yeah, well just my luck I guess. I responded to the TA involving your guy Standish. Thought I was going to have to handcuff him to get him into the ambulance." Hamilton shook his head. "Guy has some vocabulary. He just hate hospitals or what?"

"Something like that." The tight feeling in Chris' chest eased a little. Lauren Murray had told him on the phone Ezra's injuries weren't critical but he was still relieved to know the man had been awake and apparently talking. "What happened? You catch the driver?"

Hamilton snorted. "Oh yeah. Not that we had to _catch_ him, he was there waiting for us. Actually it was him who called 911-that guy from the DA's office who was with Standish was useless, he fell apart, they had to give him a sedative." Hamilton pulled his notebook out of his pocket. "Our perp-if you want to call him that-is a fifteen year old kid who sneaked out of the house to take a joyride in his brother's new sports car."

Chris blinked. "What?"

"Think about it, Larabee. A parking garage at night is really a great place for a kid to cut loose a little. Quiet, no traffic, usually no other cars." There was something indulgent in the sergeant's tone that put Chris' teeth on edge.

"What about the police unit that's supposed to guard the building?" he barked.

"Don't know," Hamilton drawled. "Maybe he was out chasing some real criminal instead of hassling some kid with a Ferrari."

Clenching his jaw as well as his fists, Chris turned on his heel and stalked to the ER doors.

 **7777777**

He saw Vin and JD right away. JD was sitting on one of the yellow plastic chairs scattered around the perimeter of the waiting room, staring into space, his young face looking desperately lost. Vin stood behind him, leaning against the wall, eyes glued to the double doors separating them from the treatment area. But where was Nathan? Chris had called the team paramedic before they left the ranch and Nathan lived only six blocks from the hospital.

The double doors swung open just then and Nathan stuck his head around them. Spotting Chris, he beckoned for him. JD stood up anxiously, but Vin patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. The sharpshooter nodded at Chris as the team leader followed Nathan through the doors.

"How's Ezra?" Chris demanded.

"He's a damn fool!" Nathan returned. He glanced at his boss and grinned ruefully. "Sorry, Chris. He's going to be fine...if Dr. Murray or I don't break his neck first."

Nathan led the way to a curtained-off cubicle, where Chris was relieved to see his undercover agent sitting up on the exam table. He was pale, with tight lines of pain around his mouth and eyes. One bare arm showed a myriad number of scrapes and bruises, the other was held in a sling, keeping the shoulder immobile. The man was arguing vehemently with the tall, red-headed Dr. Lauren Murray, who looked less than impressed with his comments. As Chris and Nathan stepped in, Ezra glanced up and saw them. Standish managed to look cool and collected in spite of the situation. "Mr. Larabee," he greeted Chris. "What brings you to this haven of medical mercy?"

"Well, I didn't come for the coffee," Chris returned, feeling a wave of relief wash over him at the sound of that familiar sarcastic tone. He glanced at the doctor. "How bad is it?"

"I am fine," Ezra proclaimed.

"I didn't ask _you,_ " Chris pointed out.

"But-"

"Shut up, Ezra," Nathan said tiredly, rubbing his hand across his eyes. He glanced at his watch and let out a groan. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Ezra stiffened as if he'd been slapped. "My most sincere apologies for disturbing your nocturnal rituals, Mr. Jackson," he drawled. "I would like to point out that _I_ didn't summon you, but I will attempt to ensure the next time I am struck by a speeding vehicle, it's at a more civilized hour."

Nathan shook his head, looking apologetic. "Sorry, Ezra...didn't mean that the way it must of have sounded."

"Lauren?" Chris prodded.

"Agent Standish appears to have experienced his usual luck tonight, Chris. No serious injuries, although I suspect a mild concussion-"

"I do _not_ have a concussion," Ezra proclaimed. "I am accustomed the feeling of that particular ailment."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "You ought to be," he said quietly.

Murray went on as if neither of them had spoken. "He's going to be stiff and sore for a few days-his hip is bruised pretty badly. But the most serious injury is that shoulder." She slapped the clipboard closed and pointed her finger at Ezra. "Agent Standish, I've warned you about this before. You keep dislocating that shoulder and you'll be facing surgery. There's only so much those ligaments can take."

"I do understand that, Doctor. And I assure you it is not my _intent_ to injure my shoulder. I can only suppose the length of my incarceration inside the tombs of the DA's office slowed my natural impulse to avoid hurtling projectiles."

Nathan snorted and shook his head again.

"You keeping him overnight?" Chris asked.

"No," Ezra said firmly. Chris glared at him.

"Don't push me tonight, Standish," Chris said silkily.

"He can go home-if someone keeps an eye on him," Dr. Murray said. She fixed her eyes on Ezra. "I'll order you a couple of prescriptions-you can pick them up at the front desk on your way out. I strongly suggest you take them, if you want to be able to get out of bed."

"He'll take them," Chris and Nathan said together. Ezra glared at first one, then the other, but finally nodded in surrender.

"Always a pleasure, gentlemen." Murray smiled as she exited the small cubicle.

Fatigue swept over Chris, suddenly making him realize just how long this night had been. To cover it he spoke gruffly. "You heard her, Ezra. Someone has to keep an eye on you. So guess you're spending the rest of the night at the ranch."

"Oh, joy. Well, at least the CDC isn't available-" Ezra stopped suddenly and his eyes widened. He lost his famed poker face. "I didn't-"

"It's okay, Ezra," Nathan soothed, trying to smooth over the awkward reminder of Buck and JD's demolished home. He glanced at Chris. "I can keep an eye on him," he offered.

Chris just shook his head. "You talk to Josiah?" He changed the subject.

"Just before eleven. He said Buck's sleeping pretty well and the Denver PD sent a couple of men over to guard the door. But Josiah was going to stay at the hospital tonight anyway."

"What?" Ezra broke in. His face creased with concern. "Has something untoward happened to Mr. Wilmington?"

"Buck may be targeted by Bolo Orlowski," Chris responded harshly. He froze as another thought occurred to him. "And you might be, too."

 _tbc..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 6**

 _Federal Building, Denver_  
 _March 30_

Vin frowned as he hung up the phone. He'd been attempting to contact Monica Hastings to thank her for the flowers, but they'd been missing each other all day. The receptionist at Riverside Pharmaceuticals sounded apologetic, but reiterated that Dr. Hastings was in a meeting with the lab's financial backers, and couldn't be reached. The receptionist had insisted the doctor would return the call as soon as she got back, but that might be awhile. Vin glanced at his watch, mentally shaking his head. He, Chris, JD, and Josiah were booked on a flight to Dallas leaving Denver at five-thirty. It was almost one now.

He glanced around the office. JD was on the phone; he had the receiver clenched between his ear and shoulder and both hands on the keyboard, typing rapidly into the computer. He was finalizing the list of equipment they would pick up that night in Dallas.

Vin could hear the soft murmur of Josiah's deep voice from the conference room. The profiler had Bobby Fewell in there; the two of them were supposed to be going over all the information Bobby would need as Ezra's backup on the upcoming mission. Vin frowned. Seemed like he'd been hearing a lot of Josiah and not much of Bobby. Vin had nothing against the rookie agent; the kid was likeable enough and Vin knew his work with other teams had been good, excellent even. But Bobby sure seemed to be having trouble with this assignment.

 _'Well, he could just be nervous,'_ Vin conceded silently. Most of Bobby's work had been with Team Three, and he hadn't had much undercover experience. Team Three tended to function more as a backup to the other teams, cleaning up in the aftermath of busts, things like that. The agents assigned were either pretty old, nearing retirement, or green, like Bobby.

Chris had left a few minutes before, saying only he had "some stuff" to take care of and would meet them at the airport. Nathan had bullied Ezra into going home for a nap. That Ezra had finally agreed either meant he was in serious pain or tired of Nathan's nagging, but Vin suspected Ezra really just needed some time to himself to prepare for his undercover role.

He looked up again as JD slammed down the telephone receiver. The youngest member of Team Seven had been in an uncharacteristically brusque mood all day, rarely speaking, and his normal happy grin was absent.

"Want to talk, JD?" Vin offered.

"Nothing to talk about." The young man didn't even look away from his computer screen, his face set in lines that aged him by at least ten years.

"JD."

"Look, Vin, you're on Chris' side of this," JD snapped. "You always are. But I'm on Buck's side."

"This isn't about sides, kid," Vin pointed out. "Buck told you that himself. If there's somethin' between them, it's between _them_." He shifted, remembering what Chris had told him in the wee hours of the morning. Vin still couldn't believe Chris had held a knife to Buck's throat and cut him.

On the other hand –remembering what Buck and Chris himself had told him about Chris' behavior after his family had been killed - he _could_ believe it-much too easily.

And God help them all if JD ever found out.

Vin and JD both looked up at the quiet rap on the door. It opened slowly and a woman looked around it hesitantly. "Umm...I'm sorry, I was looking for-" Then her eyes fell on Vin and she smiled. "-You," she finished, coming all the way in.

"Dr. Hastings!" Vin was surprised to see the woman here but pleased too. He quickly cleared a pile of folders off the chair nearest his desk. "I just got off the phone with your secretary."

"Yes...I called in for messages and she told me. I was close by so I thought I'd try to catch you here." The young woman looked around the room appraisingly and then dimpled at Vin. "I've never been to a Federal Building before," she confessed.

A sudden throat clearing announced Josiah's presence. He was standing in the doorway to the conference room, with Bobby Fewell next to him, looking interested. Vin suddenly remembered his manners. He said quickly, "Dr. Monica Hastings...JD Dunne, Josiah Sanchez, and that's Bobby Fewell."

"Please, call me Monica." The woman extended her hand to JD, her smile faltering a bit at the noticeable hesitation before the young man briefly took it.

Josiah jumped in to bridge the suddenly awkward moment. "So what is your impression of the Federal Building?" he asked, sounding more like Ezra than even Ezra could.

"Well, it's not exactly what I expected," she admitted. She glanced at Vin out of the corner of her eyes. "I was hoping I could persuade Agent Tanner to have lunch with me."

"Me?" Vin repeated, feeling stunned. He quickly recovered. After all, he _had_ been planning to ask her out when he returned from Oklahoma. "Do you like Mexican food? Place near here has a buffet at lunch..."

JD jumped up, drawing every eye to him. He flushed. "Got to go," he muttered, grabbing his jacket and spinning on his heel toward the door before the words had even left his mouth.

 **7777777**

"JD! JD, wait up!"

JD hesitated, then stopped and turned around, waiting for Bobby Fewell to catch up to him in the crowded lobby area. His friend slowed as he approached, shaking his head. "Man, what is with you? You always react that way when you're introduced to a awesome looking woman?"

"She's not _that_ good looking," JD protested. He immediately felt like a fool. No matter what he thought about Monica Hastings, he couldn't deny she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever met. He swung around again and showed his ID to the guard in front of the elevator leading to the parking garage. "It's just...she's responsible for Ezra almost dying, and Vin acts like-like-"

"Like a normal, red-blooded American Joe when a gorgeous woman starts letting him know she's interested? I mean, come _on_ , JD! The woman is hot. Besides you can't really blame her for what happened to Standish. She just created the drug, she didn't put it into his water filter." Bobby stopped as the elevator doors opened onto the parking area. "Hey'd they ever catch him? That Martin guy or whatever his name is?"

"Murine," JD answered absently, digging his keys out of his pocket. "No...no sign of him."

Bobby clapped a hand on JD's shoulder. "Come on...Tanner's taking Miss America to lunch...guess you'll have to settle for me."

 **7777777**

"So when do you get to move back to your place?" Bobby asked twenty minutes later, digging into his order of cheese fries.

JD took a slurp of his Coke, shaking his head. "Don't know," he said morosely, staring down at the table. "The bomb did major structural damage to a load-bearing wall. And all that rain after didn't help. Plus now they're saying there's damage to the foundation." He shook his head again, reaching for his cheeseburger. "They don't even know if it _can_ be fixed, much less _when_ they might get around to fixing it."

"That's tough," Bobby commiserated. "So've you gone apartment hunting yet?"

JD stopped chewing, forced down the bite in his mouth. "Apartment hunting?"

"Well...yeah. You aren't going to live with Larabee indefinitely, are you?" He took a drink. "I know there're vacancies in my complex. A one-bedroom the next building over. Looks onto the pool."

JD forced a laugh. "A one-bedroom? Where does Buck sleep, on the balcony?" He shook salt onto his fries, then looked up to catch Bobby's incredulous stare. "What?"

The other man shrugged. "Just...I never have figured out why you share a place with Wilmington. I mean, I like him, but I wouldn't want to share an apartment with him. You're around these guys all day, don't you want some privacy and your own free time?"

JD stared down at the remains of his lunch, pushing it away. His appetite was suddenly gone. "Never thought about it," he said quietly. He rallied. "I like living with Buck."

Bobby shook his head. "You know what your problem is, JD? You've got family confused with coworkers."

JD just stared at him.

"No, it's true," Bobby insisted. "You seem to think Wilmington and the others are your family. They're not, they're your coworkers. Your teammates, sure, but _not_ family. Do your job, say goodbye at the end of the day, say hello again the next morning."

JD felt a sick churning in his stomach. "Team Seven _is_ my family," he said firmly.

"No, JD, they're not." Bobby laughed a little. "Good thing too...I sure wouldn't want someone like Ezra Standish perching on _my_ family tree!"

"What does that mean?" JD snapped, feeling his hackles rise.

Bobby stopped laughing. He looked embarrassed. "Oh, hell, JD, I didn't mean anything by that. I mean, I know he's a great undercover agent. But...how can you really trust him? He was on the take in Atlanta and _everybody_ knows it."

"Ezra wasn't on the take!" JD's voice raised and some people at nearby tables looked over at him. He quickly lowered his voice. "He was set up."

"Yeah, I've heard the story." Bobby shook his head. "But come _on_ , JD. Haven't you ever heard the expression, _'no smoke without a fire'_? The whole FBI turned against Standish, from what I've heard. Gotta wonder what they know that you don't."

JD stared down at his food, appetite destroyed. He didn't know where to start telling Bobby how wrong he was.

JD had never felt so alone.

 **7777777**

"What part of Texas are you from?"

Vin looked across at Monica Hastings. The bar/restaurant he and his friends had nicknamed "The Saloon" was crowded-it always was on Buffet days-but he'd managed to find a table for two near a window. Vin didn't like crowds. Being near the window at least allowed him the illusion of escape.

"How'd you know I'm from Texas?" he asked.

"I'm good at placing accents. It's a little game I play." Monica Hastings cocked her head to one side, studying him, then nodded her head as if she'd made up her mind about something. "West Texas," she declared. A smile lit her face. "Am I right?"

"Close enough," Vin conceded. "Little town no one's ever heard of anyway. Most people that get there just want to leave." He stared off into space, lost for a moment to his memories. "Nothin' much left there but dry oil wells and broken dreams."

Silence fell between them.

"Your father was in the oil business?"

Vin shook his head. "Never knew him," he said shortly. Surprising himself, he went on, "Ma died when I was about five and after that it was all orphanages and foster homes." He looked down at his plate. "Ran away lots of times. Finally when I was about sixteen they just stopped botherin' to haul me back. I did a hitch in the Army, drifted around awhile, got some college here an' there and finally ended up a US Marshall. Then the ATF and Denver." He took a gulp of his iced tea and set down the glass, not quite daring to meet the woman's eyes. He wasn't usually so revealing about his past-especially to a woman he barely knew. "Your turn," he forced out cheerfully. "Where you from?"

"Originally? Hawaii."

Vin raised his eyebrows. "Beautiful place."

"It is. I've been there on vacation. I didn't grow up there." Monica moved her fork restlessly around her plate. "My father was in the Navy. He met my mother in San Diego when she wasn't much more than eighteen. He was twelve years older. Married her-much to the disapproval of her family. From what I've been told, it wasn't a happy marriage. My mother-she was so young. She'd always had money, everything she wanted...she didn't have a clue about how to be a wife or a mother. And he didn't have much patience with her." Vin noticed her fingers were clenching the fork so tightly the bones showed white through the skin. "When I was two he caught her with another man. He killed them both and then turned the gun on himself."

Vin impulsively reached across the table to grasp her hand. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

She managed a smile. "It was a long time ago. Anyway, my aunt and uncle raised me right here in Denver. My poor aunt-she wanted a homecoming queen, cheerleader type, and instead I was a shy bookworm. Oh well, at least my cousin Nina fulfilled some of her dreams."

Vin remembered the beautiful blonde woman he'd been introduced to at Riverside Pharmaceuticals. There had been something familiar about her. "Nina. The lawyer?"

She giggled, the sound dissipating some of the solemnity that had engulfed them. "You sound so disapproving. She happens to be a very good attorney."

Vin smiled. "Bet she is. But you ever heard that song, _'Let's kill all the lawyers, kill them tonight'?"_

Monica erupted into laughter, setting her glass of tea down hard on the table. Vin grinned widely-he liked hearing her laugh. "What kind of lawyer is she, anyway?" he asked. "She looked familiar-maybe I've seen her in court."

She stopped laughing, although her eyes still twinkled. "Defending some of the crooks you apprehend? I doubt it. She does mostly corporate law. Probably just as crooked but much more faceless." She glanced down at her watch; Vin noted it was a lacy, delicate affair with good-sized diamonds around the face. She made a face. "Speaking of Nina, I have an appointment with her in twenty minutes. She might be my cousin but she's not above charging me for a missed visit." She looked up to meet Vin's eyes. Blushing slightly, she said, "I've enjoyed our lunch."

The invitation was definitely there. Vin wasn't the ladies' man Buck was but he'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to see it. He took a deep breath. "Maybe we can do it again? Maybe dinner, next time."

A brilliant smile lit up her face. "I'd like that."

 **7777777**

Chris pulled his Dodge Ram into a parking place near the hospital entrance and killed the engine.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling the lack of sleep from the night before tug at him wearily. He had got through the long day by stubbornly focusing on one thing at a time. He owed it to his men to be totally concentrated and committed to the mission. To be anything else could be fatal.

But he also knew he couldn't leave Denver without talking to Buck.

 _Really_ talking to him this time, not allowing Buck to divert him to something else.

Larabee quirked his lips in his characteristic half-smile. _'Have to give Buck credit,'_ he mused _. 'He knows how to push my buttons.'_ And which buttons to push as well. Looking back on their argument the day before, Chris could see how Buck had herded him away from topics Buck didn't want him venturing toward by bringing Chris' anger to the fore. It was a trait Buck had perfected years before, invariably pissing Chris off all over again when he realized just how well his old friend could manipulate him.

 _'No, manipulate isn't a good word.'_

That implied something bad, or evil. Buck-as Chris well knew-engaged in such tactics only to protect, not himself, but Chris.

So the question was, _what_ was Buck trying to protect Chris from?

Well, he wasn't going to find out sitting in the parking lot.

Chris took a last deep, centering breath. He had to stay in control during the coming confrontation, not allow Buck to distract him. Really, it was amazing how quick Buck could get him to yelling when he set his mind to it. Usually the madder Chris got, the quieter Chris got. But not when Buck was involved.

Only one other person had ever been able to get Chris riled up like that.

And he'd been married to her.

He made his way into the building and up to Buck's floor. As he was walking past the nurses' station he heard a voice calling his name. The Ward clerk, a fiftyish woman who perpetually wore a frazzled air like a badge, came around the counter to shove a large floral arrangement into his arms. Surprised, Chris accepted it. Lots of tall, spikey blue, purple and white flowers nestled in a wide, Chinese-style bowl.

"That's for Mr. Wilmington," the woman said, her voice a little snappish. "I haven't had time to play delivery person today." She turned on her heel and strode back to her desk. Chris shook his head as he resumed his course down the hall. He had yet to find that woman in a good mood.

Chris didn't know the uniformed cop on duty outside Buck's door. He was another fresh-faced kid in crisply-pressed blues who looked all of fifteen. Since when did the Denver PD recruit from kindergarten? The rookie scrutinized Chris' I.D. for a full thirty seconds before he handed it back and opened the door, saying smartly, "You have a visitor, Agent Wilmington." He didn't salute, but it looked like he was seriously thinking about it.

Chris went into the room, peering over the floral arrangement in his arms. To his surprise, Buck wasn't in bed. Instead he was sitting up in the armchair, pillows stuffed around him and a blanket over his legs. The oxygen was on and Buck had both hands curled tightly around the arms of the chair. "Looking good, Pard," he commented, moving a couple of stuffed animals aside to make room for the flowers.

Buck eyed the floral offering with a funny look on his face. "You shouldn't have, Pard," he said warily.

"I didn't." Chris searched among the flowers for a card, pulling the white envelope loose and handing it to Buck, who made no move to open it.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for the trip?"

Chris grabbed the other chair in the room and turned it backwards, straddling it. He frowned, not liking the pallor of Buck's face or the dark circles under his eyes. And the weight just seemed to be melting off. Chris could never remember Buck so thin in all the time they'd known each other.

"We have to talk," he said firmly.

Buck shifted uneasily, wincing. "Thought we done talked already."

Chris shook his head, smiling humorlessly. "You think you've got me tapped pretty good, don't you, Old Dog?" he asked silkily.

He was rewarded by a wary light gradually dawning in Buck's eyes. "Don't know what-"

"You're trying to protect someone, Buck," Chris broke in. "Somebody you apparently value more than your own life and safety." He shook his head. "I don't deserve that," he finished quietly.

Silence.

"Hell, Chris," Buck said with a patently-fake laugh. "I'm not protectin'-"

Chris held up one hand. "Don't even bother, Buck," he said firmly. After a few seconds he went on, "I _know_ it's me."

Buck met his eyes and the question was clear.

"'Cause if it was anybody else, you'd trust me enough to let me help."

His eyes locked with Buck's-the gaze steady and unwavering. Buck tried to look away, faking another laugh-which resulted in a coughing spell that left him breathless. By the time it ended he was several shades paler and gasping in pain. Chris, eyes wide and worried, reached for the call button. Buck caught his hand, gripping it tightly.

"Bolo Orlowski-" he muttered hoarsely.

Chris clasped the cold fingers with his own warm ones. "What? That _was_ his bomb in your house, right?"

Buck shook his head. "No...I mean, yeah, it was. Looked like his work, at least." Buck broke off, breathing oxygen shallowly through the canula. "Chris...Bolo's signature..."

"I know, Vin told me what you said," Chris broke in. "About the wires being twisted into a hangman's noose-" he broke off, the memory that had been teasing the back of his mind coming clear suddenly. He drew in a quick, startled breath.

"Oh, God-The detonator on the bomb—the bomb in the truck…"

Buck looked at him, eyes haunted. He nodded once, sadly.

Chris heard his own voice from a million miles away. "Bolo Orlowski killed Sarah and Adam."

 **7777777**

Assistant DA Ira Berman left his office a little early that day. Telling the secretary he shared with three others ADA's he would be in at the usual time in the morning, he took the elevator down. Instead of getting off at the parking garage though, he exited through the lobby and briskly walked two blocks down to a small park surrounding a splashing fountain. A stout, middle-aged woman was the only person around. Berman sat down on the opposite end of the bench she was on. He took a long envelope from his vest pocket and tossed it onto the bench between them.

The woman's eyes flickered to it, but she made no move to pick it up. "My daughter?" she asked, her voice low, strained.

"Her record of arrests has been deleted." Berman's voice dropped. "Your son screwed up, Mrs. Conover."

"He's only fifteen!" She protested. "You wanted him to _kill_ that man!"

"I know. That's why I'm prepared to be understanding." His voice was menacing now. "Take that," he gestured to the envelope. "Get yourself and your kids out of this town, tomorrow. Don't come back. When your son messed up last night, he made some important people very mad."

The woman hesitated, licking dry lips. Then she snatched up the envelope, shoved it into her purse, and hurried away.

Berman out his cell phone. He punched in a number and waited. "It's taken care of," he said. He listened. "It was _your_ idea," he pointed out. "Don't worry, they think it was an accident."

The voice on the other end was strident, angry.

"You can depend on me," Berman said. "Ezra Standish won't live long enough to testify."

 _tbc..._


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 7**

 _Hugo, Oklahoma  
Two days later_

Vin swore silently as a bead of sweat trickled down his neck and under his collar. The late afternoon sun beat down on his back; he could feel the warmth of the water tower's metal roof through his jeans and denim shirt. He peered through the telescopic site of his rifle.

One hundred fifty feet below and several hundred yards to the northeast, roughly a dozen men-all dressed casually and holding cans of beer-stood or sat in front of a barn. The faded red paint spoke of long years of exposure to the often-extreme Oklahoma weather, but the roof showed signs of recent repair. The men ranged in age from as red-haired kid of about fifteen, expertly spitting a stream of tobacco juice on the ground; to the apparent leader of the group, a tall, silver haired man with an erect, military posture.

At the first glance it might be mistaken for just a group of friends gathered to drink some brews, shoot the breeze and maybe poach a deer or two. The men dragged lawn chairs around a barbeque pit dug in the dirt; brought in coolers from the back of pickup trucks. The young kid and two others, maybe a few years older, sniggered as they passed a magazine back and forth. From the horny looks on their faces, Vin doubted they were ogling the centerfold of _'Field and Stream'._

But the weapons two or three of the men held casually weren't hunting rifles, but sleek military automatic weapons. The young kid had a belt of grenades cinched around his waist. The same kid clutched an Uzi, caressing it like a lover.

As the minutes ticked into hours and the sun sank lower into the west, the relaxed demeanor of the group changed. The men started going into the barn in twos and threes, returning with more and more lethal instruments. The laughter and jovial conversation died down, to be replaced with ever-grimmer glares as the men looked toward the distant highway; waiting, Vin knew, for the plume of dust announcing a vehicle had turned onto the dirt road.

Vin shook his head. Where were the weapons coming from? The local authorities had assured Team Seven they'd searched the barn, thoroughly and multiple times. Without a warrant, as it turned out. Chris had been furious, although if the truth were told, Team Seven didn't have exactly the best record of waiting on the paperwork before doing a search either.

Chris' voice hissed in Vin's ear through his transmitter. "Where the hell are they?"

Vin cut his eyes to where he knew Larabee and JD were, although he couldn't see the dark green van they'd borrowed from the Dallas office. Then he looked in the other direction, toward the gnarled remnants of a peach orchard where local law enforcement-shepherded by Josiah-hid and waited.

Vin could tell from the tone of his voice that Larabee was worried and on edge. Nothing new there. This whole mission had felt wrong from the very beginning. Chris was too focused, intent, like he was trying to block everything else out. JD was withdrawn and hostile, especially toward Chris. Josiah's eyes had grown more and more worried ever since they'd arrived in the small Oklahoma town.

Ezra had called the night before. Sounding tense and unusually abrupt, the undercover agent had said the meet had been set for four o'clock. He had prevailed on some "friends"-he didn't go into details-in the Shreveport area to provide him with a suitable vehicle. He and Bobby Fewell had picked up the "bait"-crates of weapons seized in an offshore raid and hoarded for just this kind of occasion. Then Ezra had disconnected before Chris could ask for more details.

And now Ezra and Bobby were almost an hour late for the meet.

"Maybe they had car trouble," JD's voice whispered. No one responded. Vin could feel the tension ratcheting up, clenching the muscles in his back and neck. Then something caught his eyes. Swinging the telescopic site toward the south, he tracked a sleek black SUV slowing on the highway. The vehicle almost stopped before turning onto the dirt road. "Company coming," he quietly announced.

"Ezra?" Chris voice crackled with tension and static.

The SUV had tinted windows. Vin studied it through the scope, waiting patiently as it drew close in a cloud of dust, peripherally aware of Chris' impatience and the alert movements of the men below him. He finally identified the two men in the front seat. "It's them."

"'Bout damn time," Chris snapped.

Bobby and Ezra were both wearing short-range mikes but they could only send, not receive. Now Ezra's voice came over the wires, cracking with static. "Gentlemen, we have arrived."

The SUV halted in a cloud of dust about thirty feet from the ring of men. Bobby Fewell got out first. He was wearing a light cotton jacket and carrying his gun. Ezra stepped out of the vehicle. Even through the scope Vin could see he looked tired, strained. He was unarmed-or at least appeared that way. Summing up the men facing him, Ezra unerringly picked out the leader and started to walk towards him. Two of the other men stepped into his path. They were holding weapons but made no move to aim them at Ezra. Still, Bobby Fewell reacted, yelling, "Drop 'em!" and pointing his pistol at the man closest to him.

The men all looked surprised but reacted in kind, with half focusing their attention on Bobby and the others on Ezra. Standish extended both hands in a gesture of peace. "Wait, wait...there's no reason for this display of force. My companion overreacted, that's all." Without looking over his shoulder, he snapped, "Robert, put that gun away."

Bobby made no move to comply. _"Now!"_ Ezra snapped, his voice carrying the crack of a whip. Chris Larabee couldn't have done any better. Bobby hesitated, then lowered his weapon.

Ezra went on smoothly, addressing his comments toward the white haired gentleman with the erect posture that he'd picked out as the leader. "Please pardon my young friend. He is a trifle hasty, I know...but he's young and inexperienced." Ezra looked pointedly at the various weapons pointed at him. After a few seconds, the white-haired man nodded and the weapons were lowered, although Vin noted more than one of the country boys kept their eye on Bobby. Ezra went on, "I am Brody Carter."

There was something different about Ezra's accent. Vin frowned for a minute, then shook his head.

Ezra was imitating Buck's speech patterns.

For a few minutes everyone stood in an awkward silence. Bobby Fewell was obviously on edge, nervous, trying to watch everyone at once. He kept his gun pointing down but his fingers tense and ready.

Ezra appeared calm and relaxed. Not so the men he was there to meet. Vin could tell Bobby's behavior was bothering them. Two or three of the men started looking around suspiciously. Vin flattened himself against the roof of the water tower, knowing the setting sun should blind him from the men.

"Gentlemen, I thought we were here to do business?" Ezra drawled. He shot a quelling look at Bobby, which accomplished absolutely nothing.

"Calm down, Bobby..." Chris breathed. "He's going to blow this..."

"He's doing the best he can!" JD's voice was sharp in Vin's ear.

"Easy, brothers." Josiah was soothing. Shifting slightly, Vin could spot the profiler, hidden in the underbrush with the local cops. Some of them were moving nervously as well, as if Bobby's anxiety was communicating to them.

"You're late," the silver-haired man finally said. "Don't like a man who's late for meetings."

"Yes, well, we were unavoidably detained." Ezra shot another look at Bobby. "There was a roadblock near the state line. Given our cargo, we thought it best to avoid any encounter with law enforcement."

Most of the men seemed to remember just what that cargo was then, and looked toward the SUV with naked greed on their faces. The young kid started forward, to be stopped by an abrupt motion of the leader's hand. "Haven't heard tell of any roadblocks."

Ezra raised elegant eyebrows. "Tied in with the local law, are you?"

He nodded. "Kin to most of the law 'round these parts."

Vin could hear Chris cussing through the earphones. He heard Josiah demand, "That true?"

Muffled voices in the background, then Josiah's voice, heavy with concern. "Sheriff Rogers says the tall man is his cousin. Daniel Travers."

Travers was also the last name of the Hugo Chief of Police. In spite of everything, Vin had to grin a little at Chris' colorful vocabulary to describe just what he thought of this case, the local law enforcement, and for that matter, the State of Oklahoma.

Travers' attention was on Ezra although most of his friends were watching Bobby again. The young ATF agent was practically vibrating with excitement.

"The roadblock was on the _other_ side of the state line. Texas Rangers," Ezra said easily. He shrugged. "As I said, not a good idea to give them the opportunity to look at our...merchandise."

There was charged silence. Travers studied Ezra closely. The undercover agent met his eyes calmly.

Finally Travers nodded his head. "Let's look at what you've got."

Tension eased among the group. The men lost no time opening the doors of the SUV and passing out the weapons. They looked less like pot-growing gun-toting survivalists than they did eager children on Christmas morning. Ezra moved among them easily, asking questions, showing off features of the weapons. Bobby held aloof, still tightly gripping his firearm and glancing from side to side. Most of the men had stopped paying any attention to him but two or three of the older ones, as well as the young kid, shadowed him.

 ** _Denver_**

Reluctantly, Sarah Bryant let the two college girls who worked part time at the art gallery drag her out for happy hour. She'd initially refused, but then let them talk her into it. One reason was her loneliness. In the weeks since she'd assumed the Tina Barrows identity, she'd had no contact with anyone from her previous life. She had very few friends in Denver anyway; since her parents had died when she was a child her life had consisted of boarding schools in the East, summer camp in Canada, then later college and "finishing" in Europe. Up until this year, she'd never spent more than a few weeks at a time in Denver.

She'd cut off all contact with her uncle or his people, staying mostly in the small studio apartment she'd managed to rent. After returning from Europe, she'd gained access to the safe deposit box where the fraudulent identification papers Marcus Hoyt had obtained for her were stored, but she hadn't touched any of the money in the bank accounts under each name. Her feelings about her uncle were all mixed up-anger, grief, guilt and fear. She wasn't stupid and if Marcus Hoyt was guilty of even half the things he'd been accused of, her life could be in danger if he even suspected she might turn against him.

Cut off from everything she knew, her only distractions her job during the day and the small television in her apartment at night, she was adrift. Scared.

And so very alone.

Still, she'd declined when Amber and Afton extended the invitation. It wasn't until they mentioned that several employees from the nearby Federal Building usually attended "Ladies Night" that she changed her mind. She couldn't admit, even to herself, that she was going for the slim chance she'd hear something about Buck Wilmington.

The man she'd known - and fallen in love with - as Brian Jakes.

She knew he was hurt, that his home had been blown up, that her uncle had been charged with arranging it. It had been big news in Denver, the newspapers and television talking of little else the first few days. Now, though, with the exception of a one-paragraph "filler" the day before, she hadn't heard anything about him. A call to the hospital had gleaned only the information that his condition was "stable". On impulse, she'd bought him an elaborate flower arrangement and actually taken it to the hospital a few days ago. At the last minute, her good sense - or fear, or anger, or all three - had taken over, as it had the previous time she'd gone to visit him, and she'd fled, leaving the flowers at the nurses' station.

She hadn't signed the card.

What could she have said? _'I love you'?_ She didn't even _know_ him. She should hate him. He'd been playing a part, conning her, using her to get information on her uncle. Probably everything he'd told her had been a lie.

When he said he loved her...

Had he ever actually said it? She frowned. _'He must have,'_ she decided. He must have said it. That night...

 _She called him early in the afternoon. She knew Uncle Marcus had invited Brian's boss, Edward, to be his guest at his private gentleman's club that night. A few artful questions yielded the information that her uncle's chauffer would be picking up the Southern gentleman and delivering him back to his hotel. Brian Jakes hadn't been invited._

 _He answered on the second ring. "Hi, Darlin'," he said warmly once he knew who was calling._

 _"A little bird told me you have the night off," she said, smiling in secret excitement. "Free for dinner?"_

 _"With you, Darlin'? Can't think of anythin' I'd like more," he assured her. "Pick you up at seven?"_

 _She shook her head, even though of course he couldn't see her. "No, no," she said hastily. "I'll pick _ **you**_ _up. About four-thirty?" She held her breath.__

 _"That's kind of early for dinner." His voice was lazily curious._

 _"It's out of town...special place." She could feel herself blushing as she added, "I want to share it with you."_

 _The silence that followed her comment was so long, it scared her. "Brian?"_

 _"I'm here." He coughed. "Sounds wonderful. So what should I wear?" His voice sounded oddly strangled._

 _They talked for a few minutes and when they'd hung up Sarah rushed upstairs to her room. She tossed a few things into her overnight bag-she'd hide it in the car later-and eagerly pulled the plastic bag off the dress she'd bought a few days ago. White crepe, a slightly rounded neckline in front, plunging radically in back to a point at the base of her spine. Demure and innocent but at the same time provocative as hell._

 _She hoped._

 _Brian was waiting just inside the heavy plate glass doors of his hotel when she pulled up in front. Before the parking attendant could greet her, he'd stepped out and reached the passenger side. Settling his long frame into the seat, he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "You are one fine-looking lady tonight, Darlin'!"_

 _She leaned over to accept his kiss, pressing her lips against his just a little longer than she normally did. "You're not bad yourself, Cowboy."_

 _A slight frown crossed his face, to be immediately replaced by his usual brilliant smile. "So now that we're agreed we're just the two finest looking folks around, where is this special place we're going?"_

 _She giggled as she put the car into gear. "You'll find out."_

 _They'd chatted easily about trivial things initially, but the farther she drove into the mountains, the quieter Brian was. When she turned off the twisting, two-lane road onto the rough asphalt drive leading to their destination, his expressive face went still. "The Crystal Palace?" His voice was barely a whisper._

 _Sarah couldn't believe the sharp thrust of disappointment that stabbed her. "You've been here before?" she asked, keeping her voice steady with an effort._

 _"Once. Long time ago." He was staring straight ahead._

 _The road narrowed, then turned into a sweeping semi-circular drive in front of a graceful white Victorian mansion looking over the darkening waters of Crystal Lake._

 _Sarah glanced over at the man she was quickly coming to love. She felt chilled suddenly at the lost, vacant look on his face. It hit her, again, how little she knew about this man. "I didn't know you'd ever been to Denver before." She struggled to keep her voice even._

 _Brian tore his eyes away from the water. He turned to face her, something almost like panic crossing his face before the easy grin covered it. "It was a long time ago," he repeated. He reached out for her hand, kissing the back of it gently. His deep blue eyes met hers. "It's a beautiful place," he breathed quietly. "But not near as beautiful as you."_

 _ **7777777**_

 _In some ways, the evening went very much as Sarah had visualized in her daydreams. The food was wonderful, the wine perfect, the view from the floor to ceiling windows in the dining room spectacular. Brian seemed much as he usually did, attentive and loving and funny._

 _But something was wrong. Several times she looked up to see the man staring out of the windows, at the balcony overhanging the lake, the railings twined with thousands of sparkling little white lights reflecting off the calm surface of the water. The look on his face-lost, sad, and something deeper, something she couldn't identify; something dark and terrible-caught at her heart. But she was jealous too-this, the spot she had so wanted to share with the man she loved-somehow reminded him of another woman...she **knew** it was another woman._

 _Finally, realizing he hadn't heard the last few things she said, she put down her spoon, leaving her Baked Alaska untouched. "Who was she?" she asked quietly, fearing the answer, but needing to know. "Did you love her?"_

 _"What?" Brian tore his eyes away from the windows to stare at her, face astonished._

 _"The woman that you were here with...did you love her?"_

 _Brian stared at her for a long moment, then slowly shook his head, a gentle smile playing about his lips. "Yeah, I did...but not the way you're thinkin'." He gestured out at the balcony. "I was here for a wedding," he said softly. "My best friend's wedding...I stood up for him. She-his wife, that is-she'd read about this place, or maybe she'd been here once, can't really remember now. Anyway this was where she wanted to get married. At sunset." His eyes slid away to look at the darkened balcony. "So they did," he finished, almost in a whisper._

 _"Oh," Sarah was embarrassed that he'd read her so easily. But at least he was talking about his past. She knew_

 _ **nothing** about his past. He never mentioned it and when she asked he changed the subject so skillfully she never even realized it until later. She hesitated, she could tell by the sad look on his face he was thinking of something unhappy, but she had to know more. "So...where are they now? Your friend and his wife?"_

 _Brian's eyes dropped to the tablecloth; he picked up his wineglass and took a large drink. "She's dead," he said finally. His eyes lost focus._

 _"Oh," Sarah said again, feeling like an idiot. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to remind you."_

 _Now he smiled again. "It's okay. You didn't know. And like I said, it was a long time ago." He shook his head when the waiter appeared to refill the wine glasses. "Better not. Long drive back to Denver on those mountain roads."_

 _This was what Sarah had been waiting for. She gestured for the waiter to go ahead, which he did, filling both glasses before taking himself off with silken-footed perfection. Sarah picked up her glass, holding it out toward Brian. "I want to make a toast," she said softly._

 _Brian hesitated, then picked up his own glass. "What toast?" he asked, his blue eyes so intent on hers._

 _"To new memories." She clinked her glass against his, smiling as he sipped. Leaning forward, she said very quietly, "We don't have to drive home tonight, Brian."_

 _He looked at her sharply, understanding crossing his face. "Sarah-" he started._

 _She didn't let him finish. "I reserved a room when I made the reservations." She took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her throat. "I want to spend the night here, Brian. I want to spend the night...with you."_

Laughter pulled her from her reverie. Sarah looked around, startled to realize they had entered the friendly welcoming warmth of the bar. The place was crowded with people, most of them women, the air heavy with the smells of good Mexican food.

Amber led the way through the crush to a long table near the back where several women were already seated, most of them with tall glasses of wine punch in front of them. Welcoming voices greeted them, calling Amber and Afton by name. Amber introduced Sarah quickly. She rattled off names so quickly Sarah couldn't catch all of them, but she paid special attention to the slender blonde woman wearing a Federal ID badge, and the two women on either side that Amber mentioned also worked in the Federal Building.

The women all seemed friendly enough. Afton disappeared to get drinks and Jan, the slender blonde, gestured for Sarah to take the seat opposite her. "Nice to meet you," she said, the faintest hint of a southern accent in her speech. "Welcome to the party."

" _You_ don't look much in a party mood," one of the others said, pointing at Jan. "What's wrong? Your boss loan you out to Team Seven again?"

"She wishes," the girl to the left of Jan said teasingly. "Those guys are _hot!_ _And_ all single!"

"Team Seven's not even around right now," Jan said. "They're out of state on an assignment."

A woman with freckles and frizzy red hair reached for the plate of Mexican egg rolls. "Hey, speaking of them...how's Buck Wilmington doing, anyone know? I read what happened in the paper."

The three federal workers exchanged quick looks. "He's...recovering," Jan said finally. A little frown crossed her brow. "I went over to the hospital yesterday. He's kind of...I don't know, down, I think. He's really quiet."

Another woman frowned, obvious concern on her face. "That doesn't sound like him."

Sarah's heart started pounding loudly again. She took a drink of the sangria Afton had just placed in front of her. "Buck Wilmington?" she asked, desperately trying to keep her voice level and casual. "I seem to remember that name...wasn't he the ATF agent injured in that explosion a few weeks ago?" It had been big news in Denver; no one should be surprised that she knew about it.

"You mean there's a woman in this neighborhood that _doesn't_ know Buck?" The voice came from farther down the table; Sarah couldn't see the speaker.

"She started working here after Buck got hurt." Oddly enough, this was from Afton. Sarah glanced at her.

"You know this man, too, Afton?" She forced her frozen lips into a smile. To her surprise, the college girl blushed to the roots of her pale pink hair.

"You ought to go see him, Afton," Jan said quietly. "He asked me about you. He's really feeling low now with the rest of the team out of town."

The other woman from the Federal Building, who had been steadily munching her way through a platter of cheese sticks, wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin. "Poor Buck," she sighed. "It's hard seeing him so hurt." She giggled suddenly. "Not that there's anything _wrong_ with seeing him in bed!"

"Or unusual!" Someone else chimed in with an evil giggle of her own.

"Welcome, ladies...it is so good to see you all tonight!"

Sarah looked up at the voice, seeing a beautiful Hispanic woman standing at the head of the table. The women greeted her cheerfully. Amber-again remembering her duties as hostess-said "Inez, hi! This is the new manager at the gallery, Tina Barrows. Tina, Inez. Inez owns this place."

"Manages, not owns," Inez corrected gently. She smiled at Sarah. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Barrows. I am glad you joined us tonight."

"We were just talking about Buck, Inez. Did you go see him today?"

A look of sadness crossed the woman's face. " _Si...si_. I took him some lunch." She looked up as the door opened and another group of women came in. "I must go find them a table...enjoy the evening, ladies."

"Poor Inez," Someone said.

"What?" Amber asked.

"Buck and Inez have a thing going," Jan said.

Incredulous laughter from around the table. "You mean she finally slowed down and let him catch her?" One woman caroled.

"Well, what's so funny about that? At one time or another, most of us at this table have had a 'thing' with Buck!"

"Most of the women in this _room_ , probably!" A hefty blonde laughed.

"There's plenty of that charmer to go around." This was from a new arrival.

Amber held up her glass. "How about a toast to Buck? May he get better fast!"

All the women raised their glasses. "And get back to loving the women of Denver," the woman at the far end of the table said. The warm smile on her face belied her slightly sarcastic tone.

"Hear hear!" Several women chimed in.

Sarah sat still, ice slowly creeping over and shrouding her broken heart.

 _tbc..._


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 8**

Nathan shut the heavy notebook with a sigh, realizing he'd read the same page probably six times without comprehending a word. Leaning back in the chair, he scrutinized the waiting room with tired eyes.

It was quiet now, the late afternoon sunshine streaming through slightly tinted windows. The large family that had been celebrating the tenth birthday of one of its members as the father/grandfather-desperately ill, probably dying from cancer - looked on encouragingly, had pretty much left. A few lingering members stayed behind, ready for their nightly vigil.

For maybe the tenth time in an hour, Nathan pulled his cell phone - muted in accordance with hospital policy - from his belt, glancing at the message indicator. Still blank. Muttering, "Damn," under his breath, he walked out to the corridor, looking down toward Buck's room. The uniformed police officer playing sentry looked up and nodded once.

Nodding in reply, Nathan returned to the waiting room, wandering back to the table and his books. He'd come out here when Dr. Culver had walked into Buck's room with the resident who'd been popping in regularly all day. Once Nathan had looked up and seen Buck's primary physician at the hospital on what Nathan knew was his normally-sacrosanct day off, he'd known that his fears about Buck's gradually worsening condition were well-founded.

He glanced down at the books. He should be worried about the paramedic recertification exam. Hell, he _was_ worried about it. The new test handed down by the State Board was rumored to be a killer. Less than one-half of the paramedics in the first exam group had passed. Nathan was scheduled to be part of the second group, with the test in five days. That exam was the reason Chris had bumped Nathan from this assignment. Well, the supposed reason. Nathan knew Chris hadn't wanted Buck left alone, either.

He drew his phone again and looked in vain at the message indicator. _'Come on, come on, call!'_ He mentally implored. The bust was going down right now, he was sure. Should have been over already. But Chris, or Josiah...one of them would call as soon as they could. He was sure of that.

As sure as he knew the message he had to give them in return wouldn't be good at all.

He looked up as Dr. Culver appeared in the doorway. For the first time since this whole nightmare had started, Nathan saw the man dressed casually in a sports shirt and pressed khakis, with his sparkling white lab coat nowhere in sight. He looked tired. Being the head of Trauma at the University Medical Center was no easy job. Which made it all the more ominous that the staff had called him on his day off to examine Buck.

"It's not good, is it?" Nathan questioned.

The doctor sighed and shook his head. "Pneumonia was always a possibility, with his injuries." He rubbed tension away from his neck, then went on, "But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't cause for worry."

Nathan sat down heavily. For just one second he fiercely damned his medical training - training that made it impossible for him _not_ to realize how serious Buck's condition was. "What now?"

Culver sat opposite him. "I've started him on IV antibiotics and increased the oxygen. And I've ordered breathing treatments - nebulizer only, can't risk chest percussion with those broken ribs." He hesitated. "I want to try to avoid putting him back in ICU, if at all possible. But we might have no choice. When does the rest of your team get back into town?"

Nathan reached one more time for his cell phone. No messages. "I haven't heard. The bust was scheduled for this afternoon..."

Culver stood up. "You need to get some rest," he said kindly. He pointed down to the books. "Give yourself a break. Buck's got a lot going for him." He smiled. "He has six friends even more stubborn than he is."

 _ **Hugo, Oklahoma**  
_  
"I like your merchandise, Carter," Daniel Travers told Ezra.

Ezra smiled. "I'm always happy when my customers are happy," he said smoothly. "Then I take it there is no objection to the price?"

Travers motioned to one of his men. The man stepped forward, extending a canvas tote bag, incongruously embroidered with beaded hummingbirds. Ezra didn't take it; instead he looked at Bobby. Bobby didn't move.

"Robert?" Ezra finally said. "Would you mind accepting the payment?" His voice was tight. He looked back at Travers. "I trust there will be no objection to my young friend there counting it? I do like to take care of all these accounting matters on the spot."

Travers grinned. "No problem with that. I don't cheat a man who deals straight up with me, Carter. I think you and I can do a lot of business together."

Ezra smiled, a wide, pleased smile. "That does sound promising. But I might be better able to serve you if I had a more exact idea of your current status of armament."

Travers hesitated, glanced at the two oldest men as if seeking their input. Finally he nodded. "Could do with a cold beer anyway." He started toward the barn, waving Ezra to come with him. Most of the men followed, but a few, including the young red-haired kid, stayed behind. They watched as Bobby Fewell took bundles of bills from the bag and laid them on the hood of the SUV.

 **7777777**

"What the hell-" Chris' voice sounded in Vin's ear. "Where are they going?" Although JD and Chris could hear what was said, they were visually blind.

"Looks like the barn, Cowboy."

Chris swore. "The locals said they searched it!"

 _"We did!"_ Came a protesting voice. Vin could hear Josiah calmly telling the man to shut up.

 **7777777**

Ezra looked around the cavernous interior, puzzled, although he knew his face didn't show it. The barn appeared empty save for a battered refrigerator in one corner and piles of dirt and gravel in another. He looked at Travers. "You've discovered a process for making weapons invisible?" He raised his eyebrows.

The other man looked pleased. "Something like that." He walked over to the wall, digging his fingers into what looked merely like a flaw in the wood. The whole section of wall slid aside, revealing the hidden compartment, approximately six feet deep and the height of the main chamber. He chuckled at Ezra's wide eyes. "Runs all the way around three sides," he boasted, gesturing. "Lead lined, too."

"How inventive," Ezra breathed. He tensed up, knowing that Chris would be giving the command to move in at any time - now that they knew where the weapons were. All Ezra had to do now was figure a way out of the line of fire.

Before he could think, though, or even move, loud, angry yelling sounded from outside.

Then gunshots.

Then all hell broke loose.

 ** _Denver:_**

His mind was a million miles away as he gathered up his books and notes and prepared to return to Buck's room. _'No, not a million,'_ Nathan corrected himself. _'More like nine hundred miles. Why the hell don't they call? Did something go wrong?'  
_  
He hated the idea he wasn't there. Hated the team being split up. Hated that Buck - lovable, irreverent, loyal-to-a-fault Buck - was lying in this hospital.

He turned too fast and almost plowed into the man that had been staring out the window earlier. "Oh, damn, I'm sorry!" He dropped one of his books as he reached out to steady the man.

"No harm done." The other man reached down for the text and glanced at the title before handing it back. "Human Anatomy?" White teeth flashed in a tanned face. "Sounds like a page turner."

"Not hardly." Nathan accepted the book. "How's your dad doing?" he asked, knowing that he'd seen the man around a lot the last few days and assuming he was part of that big family that had had the birthday party earlier.

The man shrugged. "He's a fighter," he said easily.

"Yeah." _'Buck's a fighter too. Have to hang on to that. He's not going to just give up.'_ He turned to leave. "Sorry again for almost bowling you over," he said, managing a faint smile. "Good luck with your dad."

 **777777**

Bolo Orlowski watched in some amusement as the tall black man walked down the hall to Wilmington's room. Damn, but he loved hospitals, especially big busy teaching hospitals like this one. It was so easy to fit in. Put on a lab coat and everyone assumed you were a med student or a new resident. Wear casual street clothes and hang around in the waiting rooms with an abstracted air and everyone assumed you were a worried family member. Hell, he'd heard almost every word of that doctor's discussion with - Johnson? No, _Jackson._ Nathan Jackson - and neither man had given him a second look.

He nodded at the nurse behind the desk as he boarded the elevator. He'd been studying the situation at the hospital for two days. He needed to strike soon, he knew. With most of Team Seven gone it would be easier to get to Wilmington. He dismissed any worry about the Denver PD guard on the door. From what he had seen most of them were bored stiff with the assignment and wouldn't notice if Rin Tin Tin marched in with Moby Dick, paw in flipper. Jackson _might_ be a problem but he doubted it. The black man looked like he was exhausted. With luck - not that Bolo Orlowski needed luck - he'd have killed Buck Wilmington and been on his way before Jackson even woke up to what was happening.

He'd reluctantly dismissed the idea of using another bomb. Not because of any concerns about security but because in the hospital setting it would be too hard to ensure no one but Wilmington was killed. So he'd have to think of something else. Not too difficult, he was an _assassin_ after all, not merely a bomber.

He just preferred bombs.

They made everything so...devastated.

But he'd have to do something else this time. He'd gotten a vague idea listening to the doctor and Jackson. He'd need some help from home.

He drove to the moderately-priced business hotel he'd booked into. Once in his suite, he pulled out his cell phone. Wouldn't do to make _this_ particular call on the hotel's phone.

It was answered after half a ring. "It's me," he identified.

 _"I was getting worried."_

"No reason. I've been scouting the location. I need you to pull some information together and email it to me."

 _"There's something you need to know first."_

Orlowski shook his head. He never seemed to be able to convince his employees not to try to overload him with anecdotal information. "Not now. If it's that important, email it to me."

Long silence. _"Okay. So what did you need?"_

Orlowski told him. "And get it here fast." He disconnected, grinning. _'Mission almost accomplished.'_

By this time tomorrow he'd be on his way back to Florida.

And Buck Wilmington would be on his way to the afterlife.

 _Can't beat that._

In a great mood, humming to himself along with the radio, Bolo Orlowski called for room service.

He needed to keep up his strength.

He had a man to kill.

 _ **Hugo, OK**_

It all went so bad so fast.

Vin tried desperately to spot Ezra through the telescopic site on his high-velocity rifle. He was at just the wrong angle and as he struggled desperately to compensate, his attention was distracted from Bobby Fewell.

Then yells and a blur of movement from his peripheral vision sent him scrambling in the opposite direction. The canvas bag that had contained the money flew up into the air. Bobby had yanked out his gun, was pointing it at the young red-haired kid. Immediately the other two men were pulling their weapons too. Bobby shot once, missing the kid, and then dove behind the SUV. Automatic gunfire sprayed the area. From behind the SUV, Bobby shot again. One of the men fell, crimson spraying from his ruined chest.

"It's gone bad!" Vin hollered through his microphone.

He could hear Chris cursing, "Go Go _GO_!" The dead woods came alive as the local cops led by Josiah started swarming on the scene. Knowing JD and Chris would be there quickly to back Bobby, Vin again angled himself for the best view inside the barn, knowing that Ezra was in the middle of a mess with no backup.

 **7777777**

Once - and not all that long ago - Ezra's reaction to being caught in the barn surrounded by men who looked like they were leftover extras from the cast of _"Deliverance"_ , while the world exploded around him, would have been the certainty that he'd been betrayed and abandoned by those entrusted to guard his back.

But Ezra's mind-set had changed in the years since his assignment to Team Seven. It had been hard, slow - and taken an immense amount of effort from the whole team - but Ezra now fully believed there were six other men in the world who would go to the wire to defend him. And with everything in his clever, canny and sometimes cynical mind, he had vowed to never let them down.

So, when the first rip of gunfire shattered the stale, warm air of the barn, Ezra's first thought was not, _'I've been sacrificed',_ but rather, _'Something has gone very awry. And I'm damned if I'm going to die in a barn outside some Godforsaken town that no one has ever heard_ of.'

Fortunately for Ezra, the men in the barn with him were, if possible, even more startled than he was. "What in blazes...?" Travers uttered, swinging around to stare out the open doors.

 _'Go for it,'_ Ezra thought. He leaned over and yanked the pistol from the holster concealed on his leg. Stepping so his back was to the wall and bringing the small weapon up to bear on the open weapons locker, he said, in his normal accent, "Gentlemen. I'm with the ATF. And _you_ are under arrest."

 **7777777**

The first instant he got the inkling something had gone wrong - even before gunfire tore the air - Chris was bolting into the driver's seat of the van and sending it skewing wildly down the dirt road toward the barn. Still in his swivel seat in the back, JD hooked one foot around a support to keep in his chair. One hand managed the equipment, desperately trying to monitor what was happening, and the other clamped his headset tightly to his ears. All his doubts, his anxiety and anger had been temporarily shoved aside. This was his job. His team was depending on him. He'd do his job or die trying.

He heard Vin's shouted warning, Josiah's exhortations to the local cops, and then, Ezra's cool pronouncement to the men in the barn. He knew Chris heard the last one as well; the team leader muttered something under his breath.

The van swerved in a cloud of dust up to the clearing in front of the barn. Chris slammed it into park and lunged for the door, yelling, "JD! You're with me!"

Leaping out of the back of the van, gun drawn, Kevlar vest in place, JD took in the situation with wide eyes. Two men in jeans and work shirts were spraying the area with automatic fire - fortunately with more enthusiasm than expertise. Bobby Fewell crouched behind the SUV, occasionally taking a shot but mostly just keeping his head down. Local law enforcement stampeded toward them from the orchard. The young red-headed kid whirled around, face blanching. His hand went to the belt of grenades.

 _'Oh, heck, don't do that!'_ JD silently implored.

His unheard plea was in vain. The kid drew his arm back, preparing to heave the grenade at the approaching and unprotected men. Then a shot cracked out and he was spun half around by the impact, hanging motionless for a second, blood crimson on his shirt, before he crumpled into the dust. For one frozen second everyone stared at him.

And then the grenade exploded.

 **7777777**

Travers' eyes widened as he looked at the man holding a gun on his weapons store. "You've got balls, Fed. But how you think you're going to get all of us with that little peashooter?"

"I don't have to get you," Ezra pointed out. "I only have to fire one shot into this locker."

Travers snorted. He gestured at the men around them. "They'll kill you."

Ezra smiled ferally. "Then we will _all_ die. _I_ am always ready to die. Are _you_ ready to die today?"

Beads of sweat broke out on Travers' forehead. His eyes darted desperately around the cavernous chamber. The men surrounding him looked fearful. One or two started to lower their weapons.

"You're bluffing," Travers proclaimed. In spite of his words, his voice was doubtful. Ezra just smiled again and tightened his finger on the trigger.

"On three gentlemen...One...two...thre-"

"Don't!" Travers yelled. He turned to his men. "Drop them. Now!"

An explosion ripped through the air, followed by a second, louder explosion.

The wall of the barn blew inward, sending debris rattling down on the men within.

 _tbc..._


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 9**

 ** _Denver:_**

The chatter of voices hummed around her, sounding like nothing so much as a hive of bees. Head swimming, nausea churning her stomach, Sarah excused herself and slipped away to the ladies' room. Once there she hurled herself into a cubicle, falling to her knees on the cold tile, pressing her head against the smooth surface as she violently vomited the scant contents of her stomach into the bowl.

Even after there was nothing left to expel she huddled there, vaguely aware of icy tears streaking down her face, biting her lip, wanting to scream, to rage, to wail her betrayal to the world.

 _'He used me.'_

 _'It was never true, never...none of it.'  
_  
She'd given him the most precious gift she could. The most valuable gift any woman could give a man.

And he'd taken it from her, used her for his own selfish purposes. And it hadn't meant anything to him. She was just another in a long line of faceless women.

She couldn't move, just knelt there, shivering and crying, alone.

 **7777777**

It was late when she got home. Finally gathering her composure, she'd slipped out of The Saloon by the rear door, not wanting to have to explain her tear-stained face to anyone. Reaching her car at the art gallery, she'd impulsively given in to the thought of driving up to the Crystal Palace. Once there she sat in the car, staring at the graceful Victorian mansion, staring over the dark, serene waters of the lake.

The spring night had grown damp and chill. Finally reaching her small apartment, she flicked on the television set automatically as she passed it, headed for the pocket-sized kitchen to make a cup of tea. The cold seemed to have settled into her bones and her hands trembled as she filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.

The droning voice of the local ABC anchor greeted her as she came back into the living room. _"And recapping tonight's top story...Denver businessman Marcus Hoyt was killed tonight in what police are describing as a prisoner scuffle at the County Jail. Hoyt was arrested last month on federal gunrunning charges and was also implicated in the bombing of a local condominium unit, which left ATF Agent Buck Wilmington hospitalized with critical injuries. Neither the Denver office of the ATF or the District Attorney had any comment."_

Hot tea splattered Sarah as her cup smashed to the ground.

 **~+~+~+~  
**  
 ** _Hugo, OK_ :**

The Choctaw County Sheriff pursed his lips in a soundless whistle as he looked around the area. "So this is the way you do it in the big city, huh?"

Chris glared at him. "Might have been helpful if you'd mentioned half the suspects were related to all of you!"

The Sheriff shrugged. "Yeah, I'm sorry 'bout that. We shoulda told you. It's just that no one really wanted to believe it." Surprising Chris, he stuck out his hand to shake. "You guys did good. Coulda been a lot worse. You tell your man Tanner he's a damn fine shot."

Chris watched, somewhat stunned, as the overweight Sheriff trudged back to his car and took off with a spray of gravel and dirt. The leader of Team Seven swung in a slow circle, taking in the damage.

Floodlights illuminated the clearing, vehicles and the barn. The force of the explosion had blown in the front wall of the wooden structure but, thank God, the hidden weapons had remained safe in their lead-lined closets. _'If those had blown up, there would be a lot more than just two people dead,'_ Chris thought.

One man in the barn had died when a foot-long splinter of the wall had pierced him through the eye. Everyone else in there was cut, bruised and shaken up. Ezra had dislocated his shoulder again and probably had another concussion. The paramedics had wanted to take him into the little community hospital for observation but Ezra had refused. And Chris hadn't pushed it. Ezra was close to the edge, he could tell that. He was hiding behind his cool, sarcastic façade - the same shell he'd hidden behind during his first months with Team Seven. Chris let his eyes drift over to where the undercover agent sat just outside of the pool of light, talking quietly to Vin. Tanner was staring straight ahead but he nodded his head every once in a while. Still his eyes never left the bloody smear in the center of the clearing.

Chris winced as he thought about the other fatality. That kid. Looked like a kid, anyway. Techs from the Medical Examiner's office in Tulsa had just arrived, one or two looking a bit queasy as they worked the area with tweezers and small plastic evidence bags for the remains.

There was no way to tell now, of course, but it seemed doubtful that Vin's shot had killed him. His body had fallen on the live grenade, the resulting blast detonating the other grenades in the webbing belt. There wasn't anything anybody could have done to have saved him after that.

No one seemed to know much about the kid. Travers had said sullenly he'd just turned up one day a few months ago. Never talked about himself, hell, never talked about much at all. The local police would check missing person reports - kid was probably a runaway - but the chances of ever finding any family were pretty small.

 _'Maybe that's for the best,'_ Chris thought.

His eyes fell on Bobby Fewell. The young man still sat in the back of a patrol car, even though the on-site investigation team had finished with him. He was sipping at a Styrofoam cup of coffee and watching the activity in the clearing with a slightly amused air that didn't set well with Chris at all. He strode purposefully over.

Blue eyes met his, concern clouding his young features, so quickly and thoroughly that Chris almost believed he'd imagined the amused look there before.

Almost, but not quite.

"What happened, Fewell?" he snapped.

"I've already made a statement..."

"That was to _them_. Now, you answer to _me._ Why did you draw your weapon?"

The younger man's eyes widened. "Why? Why don't you ask Tanner?" he asked. "Or Standish...it was because of _him_..."

"I'm asking _you_ ," Chris snarled, what little patience he had exhausted.

Bobby looked away, then back up at Chris. "I don't know what happened. The guy...the one with the grenades...he was watching Standish while I counted the money. Then all of a sudden he went off. Started yelling that it was a set up, a bust. He was going to kill me. I pulled my weapon to defend myself."

Chris sat back and looked at him. "Okay...so what set him off?"

"I don't _know!_ " Bobby practically yelled. "I _told_ you it was Standish! Maybe he blew his cover, I don't know. Maybe the kid _knew_ him - But ask _him_! I _did_ my job!"

Chris glowered. Finally, he said, "We'll talk more about this later. Someone has to take the stuff back to Shreveport. Do you feel up to it?"

Bobby just looked at him. "Yeah. I'll do it."

"Josiah will go-"

 _"I'll_ go with him." JD had come up to the car. Chris wondered how much he'd heard.

"You sure?" He asked.

"I'm sure."

JD's tone was carefully neutral but his eyes were hostile. Damn. The kid had been all business since they'd left Denver, but his silence toward Chris had expressed his feelings clearer than words. JD was more than pissed; he was coldly furious. Those eyes told Chris he wasn't yet forgiven for lashing out at a vulnerable Buck.

And right now, with his mind whirling with the knowledge that Bolo Orlowski had probably killed Sarah and Adam; his concern about Buck and his fury over this screwed-up mission, Chris didn't have the time or the mental energy to deal with his youngest teammate. Maybe it was for the best to send JD with Bobby. JD was really the only one Bobby was close to and maybe JD would feel better if he could talk out his concerns with someone neutral. Surely JD understood Chris had lambasted Buck just because of his concern. If not, Buck could explain it to him when JD got back to Denver.

JD would get over it. Chris just hoped he did so quickly.

 _tbc..._


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 10**

Nathan stifled a yawn as he got off the elevator, carefully balancing the two steaming Styrofoam cups he held. The nurses' station was empty as he passed. It wasn't quite midnight but already the hospital was sunk deep into the noisy hush of night shift.

Sgt. Ian Hamilton of the Denver PD was in the chair outside Buck's room, frowning over a book of crossword puzzles. "Know a seven-letter word for _herb of death_? he asked, not looking up.

"Hemlock. Here." Nathan handed him one of the cups. Eyebrows raised in surprise, Hamilton took a greedy sniff. "You didn't get this from the cafeteria," he commented, peeling off the plastic lid and sipping happily.

"No. I had to get out for a while," Nathan confessed. "Walked over to that all-night coffee place in the mall." Nathan didn't mention he'd had to leave the hospital to return Josiah's call on his cell phone. He reached for the door handle but Hamilton lifted one hand to stop him.

"Respiratory Therapist is in there. Said something about giving Wilmington a breathing treatment, whatever that is."

Nathan cringed. He knew how necessary the treatments were-knew how important it was that Buck coughed to clear his lungs of the congestion clogging them-but the act of coughing was so painful to the injured man that he kept trying to stop it.

The door opened then and the RT stepped out. Nathan hadn't seen this one before-middle aged, slightly stooped, with heavy black-framed glasses. Nathan smothered a smile, imagining how disappointed Buck must have been. Wilmington kept saying all the RTs were so _hot!_

"Left the mask on. I gotta go start another treatment and then I'll be back," the therapist said in a strong New York accent. "We're shorthanded tonight." He hurried down the hall.

"Thanks for the coffee," Hamilton grunted to Nathan, looking back down at his puzzle.

"No problem." Nathan stepped inside Buck's room. Buck had been dozing when he'd left and he'd turned off all the lights except the half-panel over the bed. The RT must have turned on the overhead light though; the harsh fluorescents cruelly showed the pallor of the injured man's face. Buck's eyes shifted toward Nathan and he weakly waved, prohibited from talking by the clear plastic mask that covered his mouth and nose. As usual the hiss and bubble that accompanied the breathing treatment made Nathan think of an old-fashioned coffee-pot.

Buck's hand went toward the mask. Nathan caught it and replaced it on the bed. "Don't," he scolded. "Don't try to talk, just breathe deeply. Mouth and nose."

Buck gave him a withering look, fighting a cough. He gestured to the phone.

"I talked to Josiah," Nathan said, sitting back down in his chair. He scooted his notebook over with his foot. The relief he'd felt at hearing his best friend's voice had vanished as Josiah solemnly filled him in on the bust. "Everyone's okay," he hastened to assure Buck, seeing the anxiety in his dark blue eyes. "Well...Josiah said Ezra got shaken up some but they didn't take him to the hospital so he must be okay." Nathan hurried on, "JD's fine. He and Bobby are taking the car Ezra borrowed back to Shreveport...they'll catch a flight out from there. The others were going to get a couple hours sleep and then head to Dallas. Be back here tomorrow afternoon sometime."

Buck reached for the mask again. Again, Nathan swatted his hand away. "Leave that alone," he repeated. He glanced at the plastic vial attached to the oxygen line; it was still half full.

Buck started coughing: deep, tearing coughs. His face whitened with the pain and he tried to curl around his damaged ribs, gasping. Worried, Nathan put the back of his hand on Buck's forehead. _'Damn.'_ In spite of the powerful antibiotics flowing into his veins through the IV, Buck's temperature was rising. "Just go with it," he coached, feeling helpless. "Don't fight it so hard."

The spasm finally eased and Buck relaxed into the pillows, exhausted. The bluish tinge to his complexion alarmed Nathan and he belatedly noticed the head of the bed hadn't been elevated. That surprised him; during the previous treatments he'd seen, the RTs had always raised Buck as close to sitting upright as he could bear. Nathan reached over for the controls and raised Buck's head.

Buck's color didn't improve and he started panting, eyes widening in panic as he couldn't get enough oxygen to his damaged lungs. Recognizing the symptoms, Nathan leaned over him, getting as close to Buck as he could, catching his eyes with his own. "Buck! Listen to me," he said, low but urgently, compelling Buck to focus on him. "Relax. Just try to breathe normally. You've got plenty of oxygen, Buck...you just need to calm down and let your body get it."

He could tell Buck was listening to him but he couldn't seem to comply. Then he started coughing again, harder, and that just made things so much worse. One of the alarms started pinging. Nathan didn't look up to see which one it was; he just hit the call button for the nurse. Then, remembering the empty station and realizing they must all be with other patients, he started for the door. Buck had a tight grip on his hand and wouldn't let go. "Hamilton!" Nathan called, hoping his voice would penetrate the closed door and alert the policeman they needed help.

Buck's free hand went up to claw at the mask again. The vial of medication was almost empty and Nathan had just about decided to take matters into his own hands when the door was flung open to allow Janna, the night nurse, to rush in, followed by another young woman in a white lab coat. Sgt. Hamilton stood in the doorway; Nathan realized the man must have summoned help when he heard the yelling.

Janna took in the situation quickly and took the mask off Buck's face, replacing it with the lightweight oxygen canula. Out of the corner of his eye Nathan could see her adjust the flow higher. "Mr. Wilmington, I need you just to try to relax now," she said calmly. She looked up at Nathan. "This'd be a lot easier if we could turn him on his side."

Nathan nodded; it would be, but Buck's broken and casted leg - as well as the damaged ribs - prohibited that.

Slowly the coughing spasm eased. Nathan could feel Buck's tense muscles relax under his hands. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and under his eyes and the nurse went into the bathroom to wet a washrag. "I think we'll give you your next dose of pain meds a little early," she said, coming back in with the damp cloth. Nathan took it from her.

He'd almost forgotten the other woman in the room, until he heard her voice. "Who started his breathing treatment?"

Nathan looked at her for the first time, noticing her picture ID said _M. Norris, Respiratory Therapy_.

"The other RT, the man."

She looked confused. "I'm supposed to be the only one on this floor tonight. What was his name?"

Nathan didn't know. He looked at Hamilton, who shook his head. "He had a name tag on," Hamilton frowned, looking uneasy. "Not a picture ID, just a white pin...started with a 'C' I think...Carter, no, Cartier. That's it."

The RT shook her head. "Can't be. Phillip Cartier is off this whole week. He never comes up here, anyway - he's assigned to Pediatrics. What'd this guy look like?"

Nathan exchanged glances with Hamilton; he could feel cold chills chasing down his spine. Buck, fortunately, was too exhausted to notice the heightened tension in the room. His eyes were drifting shut.

"Middle aged guy, blond hair..."

"Black rimmed glasses," Nathan supplied.

The woman shook her head again. "That doesn't sound like anybody..." Before Nathan could stop her, she reached over and picked up the canister off the bed. There was a little liquid left in and she shook it, then took a cautious sniff. Her eyes, wide with alarm, met Nathan's. "We may have a problem," she whispered.

"What?" Nathan asked, dreading the answer.

The RT gulped. "I don't know what's in this," she said, extending the canister. "But it's not albuterol. It's _not_ his breathing treatment."

They were somewhere on the highway - JD knew they'd left Oklahoma but he wasn't sure if they were currently driving through Arkansas, Texas or Louisiana - before he broke the silence in the SUV. "What happened?" he asked.

Bobby didn't look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Don't diss me," JD snapped. "You blew it out there. You acted like the worst kind of amateur-"

"Thank you, Chris Larabee." Bobby's voice was acidic.

"You're damn lucky he didn't hand you your head on a platter," JD pointed out. "And tryin' to lay the blame onto Ezra was just wrong, Bobby. Stupid and wrong."

Fragile silence stretched between them, brittle as spun sugar.

"You're right," Bobby finally said.

JD hadn't expected that. Bobby went on, musingly, "I shouldn't have accused Standish without more evidence. Should have known Larabee would just blow me off."

" _More_ evidence? What are you talking about, Bobby?" JD demanded.

His friend shifted so he was facing him. "Look...JD...I know you won't want to believe this...but I wasn't lying. I _don't_ know what happened to make that kid go off...but he _was_ staring at Standish real funny. And when Standish looked back at him...and what was all that about making me take the money?"

JD sighed. "You were supposed to be his employee," he pointed out. "Wouldn't be proper for Ezra to actually touch the money. A gentleman doesn't do that," he recited.

Bobby made a rude exclamation. "Guess _he_ told you that, huh, JD?" Bobby shook his head. "Look, you know who my family is..."

JD nodded. That he did. _Everyone_ in the Denver office-probably everyone in the ATF-knew Bobby Fewell's family background.

The Fewell family was to government service what Wrigley was to chewing gum. Bobby's grandfather had been an assistant director of the FBI under J Edgar Hoover. His father was retired from the Secret Service; two uncles were high up in the FBI and his brother and several cousins were all in one or another of the alphabet agencies. JD's eyes narrowed as a sudden thought occurred to him. He remembered the first time he'd invited Bobby to join Team Seven for a drink after work; there'd been an odd constraint between the novice agent and Ezra. Neither one of them had ever explained it to JD, but Ezra had later mentioned almost in passing that he had worked with one of Bobby's cousins in Atlanta.

"That whole story about him being framed in Atlanta doesn't even make sense," Bobby's voice was rising in heat. "An _Assistant Director_ tried to take him down? Why?" JD opened his mouth to answer but Bobby kept right on. "I appreciate your loyalty, JD, hell everyone knows Team Seven stands by their own, but what you guys don't get is that Standish doesn't deserve that loyalty. He's dirty, JD. He was dirty in Atlanta - how the _hell_ do you think a lowly field agent could afford a Jag? - and he's dirty now."

JD managed to keep his voice level with an effort. "Bobby-"

"He's dirty, JD! And he _was_ responsible for what happened on site. I can't prove it but I saw-"

"Saw what?" JD prodded when Bobby suddenly shut up. He didn't believe Ezra was dirty - hell, he'd known right off the bat Ezra was good people, even when the rest of Team Seven was floundering in doubt at the very beginning. He really didn't want to hear anything else Bobby had to say but he figured he should listen and try to defuse whatever was bothering him. If Bobby went back to Denver and started spouting off in front of the wrong people it could make trouble. Not so much for Ezra - JD didn't think anyone in the Denver office harbored any doubts of the undercover agent anymore - but for Bobby's sake. Chris wasn't too happy with him as it was and Buck would go ballistic if-

Buck.

Oh God, he'd forgotten for a little while. How could he forget? His best friend was in the hospital; he'd almost died...the home they'd shared was nothing more than a pile of rubble, their battered possessions relegated to cardboard boxes in Chris' barn.

"Saw what?" He asked again, desperately trying to get his mind off Buck. He couldn't deal with the confusion now, the anger, the fear and the hurt. _'Later...'_

Bobby was silent for a long minute, then shifted around more in the seat, facing JD as much as he could within the confines of his seat belt. "In Shreveport," he started, "Standish didn't want us to share a room. He insisted on separate rooms. I said the budget guys wouldn't like that, he said he'd pay for his own damn room."

"So?" If Bobby had acted even half as hostile to Ezra as he was acting _about_ him, JD could sure understand why the undercover agent hadn't wanted to share a room with him.

"I was wiped, crashed soon after we checked in. Something woke me about two - the guy next door having trouble with his key card, I think - anyway I couldn't go back to sleep. I was hungry. There wasn't any room service at that hour but there was a convenience store next door; I thought I'd walk over and get something."

JD frowned, really confused at how Bobby's middle-of-the-night munchies had anything to do with Ezra being on the take. Or _not_ being on the take. Or whatever.

"I saw Standish," Bobby rushed on.

"Ezra was having a snack attack too?"

Bobby sighed. "No," he said patiently. "He was in the lobby, talking with some guy. Really furtive, they were in a corner. The guy had his back to me but I think-" Bobby paused dramatically.

"You think _what?_ " JD had to force the words out. He was suddenly quite sure he _really_ didn't want to hear what Bobby thought.

"The guy he was talking to was short. Red-haired."

JD finally followed Bobby's thought. "Oh, you can't mean-"

"Yeah. I bet it was that kid that jumped the gun at the bust today."

 _'Oh, God, no,'_ JD pleaded silently. _'It couldn't be...Ezra wouldn't have...'_

But why would Bobby lie to him? They were friends...it didn't make sense...

JD stared through the windshield at the inky blackness of the highway.

He felt deserted and alone, and far away from home.

It was so late by the time everything was cleaned up at the site and the reports written and filed that Chris - seconded by Josiah - reluctantly decided they might as well spend what remained of the night in Hugo and get a fresh start for Dallas in the morning. Although Ezra didn't seem happy about the idea, the energy letdown that always accompanied the end of an undercover mission was hitting him hard, leading him to owl-eyed exhaustion. Vin didn't express an opinion either way.

They were leaving the Hugo Police Department building when the sergeant on desk duty called for them to wait. He approached Chris, holding a piece of crinkly fax paper in his extended hand. "We got an ID on that kid you killed," he said to Vin. There wasn't anything derogatory in his tone; just matter of fact, but Vin noticeably hesitated.

Thinking only of Vin's dyslexia and his not wanting him to be in awkward position, Chris reached out and took the paper from the man. "Sammy Parker. Ran away from a juvenile detention facility near Tulsa four months ago." He scanned the rest of the fax, shaking his head. Sammy Parker's short, unhappy life had been decided long ago.

"Any-" Vin stopped and cleared his throat. "Any family? Anybody that-"

"-Gives a damn?" the sergeant finished. He shook his head. "Don't look like it. Mother just up and left one day. Father's serving twenty-five to life in Big Mac-" he noticed Chris' puzzled look and interrupted himself to clarify, "State Prison at McAlester. We'll probably never know how the kid ended up down here with our little group of revolutionary wanna-be's. I'll notify the Juvie authorities up in Tulsa...they can close the books on him." He shook first Chris' hand, then Vin's. "Nice meetin' you fellas - hope you have a good trip back."

Vin took the fax from Chris and studied it with a tired, sad look on his face. Chris shook his head, knowing what Vin was thinking. "Nothing you could have done differently," he pointed out.

Vin nodded. "I know. Nothing I could have done different today. Just seems like sometime, someone should have done _something_ different. I mean, hell, Chris. This kid's life was over before it even started. What chance did he have?"

Chris took a deep breath. "Same chance _you_ had, once upon a time," he pointed out. "Yeah, the odds were against him, Vin, but sooner or later person has to make their own choices. Sammy Parker chose one way. You chose another. Hell, look at Buck. He had every reason to go the wrong way, too-" He stopped suddenly, reminded with a sickening lurch to his stomach, that Buck was far away and badly injured. He sighed. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's get a couple hours sleep and then get the hell out of here. It's time we went home."

 **~+~+~+~  
**  
Ezra stood under the steaming cascade of water, imagining he could feel the thousands of individual drops striking muscles too long knotted with tension. He sighed in relief as the water soothed the burning ache in his shoulder and eased the stabbing pain behind his eye.

Washing the remnants of "Brody Carter" away.

It was never easy for him to return to his own skin, his own identity, after an undercover mission. Truth be told, he left a little part of himself behind every time. Few people would believe it. He'd been born to the con; it was what his mother made him, what she wished him to be. But, in spite of Maude's teachings, some small, stubborn streak of his father - that shadowy, half-remembered man - pulled Ezra away from Maude's often questionable schemes and into law enforcement. _"What a waste of your God-given talents,"_ his mother despaired. When she was angry with him for thwarting her desires yet again, her words were more spiteful. _"I raised you for better than this."_ Ignoring that her _"raising"_ of him had been sporadic at best; she'd frequently abdicated her maternal duties to friends, relatives, boarding schools and summer camps...

He forced his mind away from troubling thoughts; tried to blank it completely, concentrating on the feel of the warm water. He thanked the patron saint of undercover agents for the fact this little motel had an apparently unlimited supply of hot water.

The chill of air conditioning hit him as he exited the warm, steamy bathroom and he shivered, wishing he had something warmer to wear than his silk pajama bottoms. It wasn't that it was hot - actually the night was on the cool side - but he couldn't stand the stuffiness of hotel rooms. Upon entering the room he had immediately adjusted the air conditioner to its coldest setting. He quickly slid between the stiff sheets and stuffed both flat pillows under his shoulders. Reaching for the remote, he ran through the television channels quickly, avoiding the news, sports and weather that seemed prevalent and finally settling on the History Channel, which was airing a documentary about Nazi war criminals. Adjusting the volume just loudly enough to provide a background hum, he reached for his book. Tennyson's _"Idylls of the King"_. A childhood favorite and one he frequently re-read when coming off an undercover mission.

But his mind refused to become involved with the familiar words. His shoulder burned like molten lava. He shut his eyes, letting the book drop to his chest.

The last few days whirled in front of his closed eyes in a kaleidoscope of images, echoing remnants of speech. Bobby Fewell's face rose up in front of his eyes, the handsome features twisted with loathing, the voice heavy with disgust.

Ezra had managed to avoid Bobby Fewell for several weeks after the novice agent's arrival in Denver. He'd recognized the name, of course; realized the young man had to be related to Kevin Fewell. The memories of Atlanta were all twisted up with thoughts of the man who'd been a friend once and then believed the rumors, the lies...turning his back when Ezra most needed him.

But JD and Bobby had become friends. JD was excited about this new friend, talked about him. Ezra could understand it. JD was everyone's kid brother. He contributed his invaluable computer expertise to Team Seven but he felt they held him back, protected him too much. Not that JD could probably admit that to anyone, even himself.

But the relationship with Bobby was different, on equal footing. Peers.

Still, even after Bobby had started joining Team Seven occasionally for drinks or dinner, Ezra managed to avoid him. He simply skipped the outings when he knew Bobby would be there. Until one night when Bobby unexpectedly turned up at the Saloon after work and JD insisted he join them. It was every bit as uncomfortable as Ezra had known it would be. Everyone had sensed the tension between the two. JD had been upset, demanded to know what was going on. Ezra had muttered something vague about knowing one of Bobby's cousins in Atlanta. It seemed to satisfy JD; at least, he made no more mention of it. Whether he'd pressed Bobby for further information, Ezra didn't know.

But after that first time things had improved. Bobby was never overly friendly but he was cordial enough. Ezra knew why. It was no secret that Fewell felt his talents were wasted with Team Three. He was angling to be part of the best: Team Seven. And he was smart enough to realize Chris would never let him on the team if there were problems between the newcomer and the undercover agent.

But Bobby's dislike for Ezra wasn't tamed, just under wraps. Ezra knew it. Bobby couldn't seem to resist the occasional verbal dig or a certain look in his blue eyes when he looked at the older man. No one ever seemed to notice and there was nothing overt that Ezra could pinpoint. But he could feel it, the sick churning in his stomach that brought up memories of Atlanta all over again.

And then Buck had been hurt. And the Brody Carter assignment came up. And Chris told Ezra that Bobby was going undercover with him as his backup.

Ezra didn't protest. What could he say? That Bobby sneered at him with his eyes? Travis had ordained Bobby would join Team Seven. Bobby was Robert Fewell, from the First Family of government service. The protege of Travis' assistant and trusted friend, David Montgomery. And who was Ezra? Just Ezra Standish, slick undercover agent, con man; a black sheep with the stench of Atlanta hanging over him. Ezra didn't protest the assignment because he knew it wouldn't make any difference.

Oddly enough he wasn't worried about his personal safety. Bobby _was_ a Fewell. He was Kevin's cousin. Even after Kevin had lost all faith in Ezra, he'd still protected him because that was what a good FBI agent did. Even if the one he was protecting was dirty. Scum. Lower than the miscreants they arrested. Kevin would never leave Ezra twisting in the wind. He watched his back.

And he had almost died because of it.

His mind drifted back to the flight to Shreveport...

 _Ezra sat with his eyes closed, listening without hearing to the drone of the jet engines, the hum of conversation around him. Bobby hadn't said a word since the plane took off; Ezra assumed the younger agent was - as he himself was - using the time to mentally prepare himself for his upcoming role._

 _"You ever think about what you did to my cousin, Standish?" Bobby's voice was close to his ear._

 _Startled, Ezra's eyes snapped open. His heart pounded hard in his ears. Still he managed to keep his poker face intact. "Brody Carter," he reminded Bobby._

 _"No one on this plane's going to know."_

 _"That is hardly the issue," Ezra replied. "To mentally prepare for the role - to actually **become**_ _the character you are assuming - can make the difference between-"_

"Yeah, I've heard your spiel already." Bobby shook his head. "Got to give you credit, Standish. You are one cold-hearted bastard. You didn't answer my question. You ever think about how you ruined my cousin's life?"

 _"Your cousin was my friend."_

 _"Liar!" Bobby's voice rose over the whine of the jet engines and several passengers looked over to see what was going on. A flight attendant started toward them, but Ezra caught her eye and shook his head slightly._

 _"My cousin wouldn't have been friends with someone like you. A turncoat traitor." Bobby's voice was lower now but bitterness drenched the words._

 _Ezra sighed. "Might I suggest we avoid this subject?" he asked politely. "Both of our lives might depend on our ability to get along for the next few days."_

 _Bobby laughed. The sound sent cold chills up and down Ezra's back._ _"You're delusional if you think I'm depending on **you**_ _to watch_ _ **my**_ _back." He grinned coldly._

 _'And you're not planning on watching mine, either.' Ezra couldn't avoid the thought._

 _They didn't exchange another word until they were driving from the airport to the hotel in Shreveport. "How'd you do it, anyway?" Bobby suddenly asked. "Get Chris Larabee to take you onto his team? You ought to be serving a life sentence in Leavenworth and instead you're lording it over everyone in Denver."_

 _"I never did anything deserving of imprisonment," Ezra responded quietly. "And you'd have to ask Mr. Larabee that question." He kept his eyes on the road._

 _Bobby snorted. "Yeah, right. Don't even bother, Standish. You can't con me. I'm not some innocent like JD. I **know**_ _what you are."_

Ezra didn't say anything.

Bobby turned in his seat and looked directly at him. "There is such a thing as justice," he said quietly. "And if I have anything to do with it, you'll get what you deserve for what you did to my cousin. And what you did to everyone else who ever trusted you."

Ezra forced words through his tight throat. "I never harmed your cousin. Believe what you want, but Kevin was my friend. I am sorry for what happened, but I was _**not**_ _responsible."_

 _Bobby just looked at him._

 _And that look on his face chilled Ezra to his core._

 ** _7777777_**

 _Twenty-four hours later Ezra sat in the passenger seat of the borrowed SUV as Bobby drove down the dirt road toward their meeting with the Hugo gunrunners. And for the first time since his embrace by his brothers on Team Seven, he went into a deadly situation with the same feeling he'd had those last months in the FBI._

 _That he was in as much danger from his supposed back up as he was from the criminals he was facing._

Next door to where Ezra stared sightlessly at the ceiling and remembered, Vin Tanner sat at the small round table and stared out the window to the darkened parking lot.

The room was cold. Like Ezra, Vin couldn't stand the stuffiness of a closed-in motel room and had turned on the air conditioning. Chris slumbered in the far bed, covers drawn close around his shoulders, frown on his face even in sleep. Vin glanced at his best friend. He knew Chris was exhausted; the man hadn't slept much at all since Buck had been injured and had had virtually no sleep since Travis had dumped this case in their laps. He needed the sleep.

 _'But, damn, I wish he'd wake up.'_

Alone with his thoughts, Vin turned back to the flimsy piece of fax paper on the table. The scant details of the short life of Sammy Parker. Sixteen years, reduced to a few lines of type.

And no one to care. Whereabouts of the mother unknown, the father in prison. The Juvenile authorities in Tulsa would probably breathe a sigh of relief when they heard the news. One less kid with no future to keep track of, to warehouse until he could be cut loose to make his way any way he could in an adult world no one had ever prepared him for.

No one to care.

Except the man who had shot him, and ended his life.

Vin never went to bed. He was still sitting there when the sun rose over the horizon.

 _tbc..._


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 11  
**  
 _Denver_ :

David Wyerly sat in his car outside Forest Glen Condominiums, waiting patiently for the security patrol to pass. He'd been keeping an eye on Standish's place, learning the routines of his neighbors, the patterns of the security guards. He'd taken to dropping in at the bar near the Federal building around five, when the clerical workers came in for a drink before heading home. The night before, a few drinks, a flirtatious smile, some flattering comments, and he'd found out from a plumpish blonde secretary named Jan that ATF Team Seven was out of Denver on assignment but expected back sometime the next day. Today.

Nina and Monica were still working on their complicated scheme. David shook his head. His uncle had told them all to work together but the girls were just having too much fun playing around, planning. David didn't have the patience for it. He wanted justice. He wanted blood.

Ezra Standish's blood.

His gut clenched tightly with anticipation. Today. Today Ezra Standish would pay the ultimate price for what he'd done to Steven.

Starting his car, David drove slowly around the complex until he neared the covered car park holding the condominium owners' assigned parking spaces. He waited a few minutes, but as usual at this time of night, no one was around. The dead time of night, the dark hours before dawn when most people slumbered in the illusion of safety.

The time when justice walked hand in hand with vengeance and the shadow of death.

Humming under his breath, David got out of his car and reached into the back for the toolbox. His grin broadened as he walked toward the sleek black Jag parked in the spot assigned to Unit 1-F.

 _Early morning_

Nathan rubbed his tired eyes and sipped again at the coffee a friendly nurse had provided him. The burned sludge must have been sitting in the bottom of the pot for hours but that didn't matter. It was hot and he needed the caffeine.

He studied the man in the hospital bed. Buck had been restless all night as his fever mounted, but he'd finally slipped into an uneasy doze about an hour ago. Nathan watched in concern as Buck's head moved fretfully against the pillow and he muttered something through cracked and dry lips before quieting again. Dark circles shadowed his closed eyes and the hectic flush of fever burned his cheeks.

Nathan looked up as the door opened and Orrin Travis stepped in. The Assistant Director looked every minute of his age this morning as he started to speak. Nathan shook his head with a warning glance at Buck. Then he stood and led Travis out the door.

The metal folding chair outside the door was empty. Nathan looked around. Last time he'd seen Hamilton, the sergeant was being grilled by a Denver PD detective and Travis' assistant David Montgomery. Nathan felt bad for the cop. Someone had waltzed right past him to make another attempt on Buck's life, but hell - Nathan had been there too. He'd looked at the man, even spoken with him, and never realized he was looking at an assassin.

"How's Buck doing?" Travis asked.

Nathan rubbed his hand across his tired eyes. "He's been really restless. Just drifted off a while ago."

"I talked to the doctors before I came up here."

Nathan looked up sharply, fatigue momentarily leaving him in the wake of a surge of adrenaline. "They know what was in that solution yet?"

Travis met his eyes briefly before shaking his head. "Something synthetic, that's all they know. They're working on it. They've enlisted the help of every lab in the area; I contacted Washington and some of the best chemists in the country are working on it. One good thing, Dr. Culver doesn't think whatever it is, is affecting Buck yet."

"Great," Nathan said in a tone of unusual bitterness. "Buck's fighting an uphill battle as it against the pneumonia- with his injuries - and now he's got some unknown toxin in his system and we don't have any clue how it's going to affect him." He swung around, staring out the window at the parking lot below. "Didn't we just go through this with Ezra?"

It was a rhetorical question. Travis just sighed. "They should be home this evening," he said comfortingly. "Have you told them...?"

Nathan shook his head. "Buck didn't want me to say anything until they were here. They don't even know about the pneumonia yet."

"We'll know something by the time they get here," Travis said staunchly.

"Where's the police guard?" Nathan asked suddenly. Surely Buck's door shouldn't have been unguarded this long.

Travis sighed again. "Yes, well...that's another problem."

Nathan swung to face him. "What?"

"I would imagine you haven't had much time to listen to the news." The AD's voice was matter of fact. "Marcus Hoyt was killed in the County Jail yesterday. Scuffle in the laundry room...they're investigating it but it seems he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, with Hoyt gone the Denver PD doesn't seem to think Buck's in any danger and they say they don't have enough men to keep guarding him."

"But Hoyt's still got people-" And most of them were walking around on the loose thanks to the wonderful world of bail and courthouse politics.

"I know. There's nothing to worry about, Nathan. Teams Three and Eight have already volunteered for protection duty."

 _ **Dallas-Fort Worth (DFW) International Airport**  
 **Fort Worth, TX**  
_  
They were lucky. There was one seat available on a flight leaving almost immediately for Denver. Josiah convinced Chris to take it, knowing their leader wouldn't rest until he'd got home and checked on Buck with his own eyes. Chris put up token resistance but he was soon striding down the connection bridge to the plane.

The rest of them stood at the windows until the sleek silver jet nosed its way out onto the runway. Then, as one, they turned away. Vin headed immediately for a seat in the corner but Josiah stopped him. The worn, tense looks on his two younger friends' faces hadn't escaped him. "Breakfast, brothers?" he rumbled. It was _not_ a suggestion.

Ezra argued anyway. "We already ate breakfast, Mr. Sanchez," he pointed out.

Vin came out of his sullen silence to back Josiah. "Hell, Ezra, even _you_ can't consider a McDonald's sausage biscuit a real breakfast."

"Unlike you and our compatriot young Mr. Dunne, I don't consider McDonald's cuisine a desired meal at any time."

"Now, brothers," Josiah said, slinging an arm around each of them and guiding them along. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Ezra snorted. "So Mr. Jackson has been trying - and failing - to convince me of for years."

"You ought to listen to him, Ez. You get much skinnier and you'll just blow away in the next big wind."

There was some truth to Vin's observations. Ezra was never a hearty eater when he was under stress and he'd lost weight after being poisoned by the experimental cardiac drug. Nathan had been fussing about it even before Ezra left for his undercover mission. Ezra - as usual - had ignored his worries.

They skipped the fast-food places in the food court in favor of a restaurant near the security checkpoint. "The Branding Iron" boasted "The best breakfast in Big D!" They found a table and a waitress immediately appeared with coffee and menus. Vin and Josiah both ordered hearty meals and Ezra, in a _"God help me"_ voice requested a bagel with cream cheese and hot tea. Actually, he specified Earl Gray but the waitress looked so puzzled he gave up and just nodded when she brought him a small pot of hot water and a Lipton's teabag.

So far, nothing different than a hundred meals they'd shared over the last three years.

But there _was_ something different. Josiah could sense it. Vin, in spite of his enthusiastic order, didn't eat much more than a few mouthfuls, just pushing the food around on his plate. Ezra nibbled on his bagel and pretended to read the _USA Today_ someone had left on a nearby chair, but Josiah noted his eyes just darted from side to side and he never actually turned a page. Josiah tried a few conversational salvos but neither one responded. Well, they _did_ respond in a fashion: Vin grunted and Ezra launched into long monologues full of polysyllabic words that said absolutely nothing relevant.

The profiler sighed. He knew them both too well. Vin was worrying over the way the bust had come out-no matter how justified, the sharpshooter was never going to feel easy about killing a kid. As for Ezra, he'd crawled back behind the emotional walls they'd worked so hard to break down. And damned if Josiah could figure out _why_? True, the man had to be hurting physically - in the past few weeks he'd been hospitalized three times, poisoned, suffered a heart attack and been hit by a car. Plus he knew Chris was concerned he was a target of the same man who'd gone after Buck. And he'd gone undercover without his usual back-up. But Bobby Fewell had been with him-

Bobby Fewell.

Josiah's thoughts stuttered to a slamming halt. He suddenly saw, in the crystal eye of memory, the last several weeks with Ezra's too-poker face set in completely neutral lines when Bobby had joined Team Seven for some social event. Saw too the quickly concealed hurt in those green eyes in response to some seemingly-innocent remark Bobby had made.

Innocent to Josiah's ears.

But to Ezra's?

What was Ezra's problem with Bobby Fewell? And what had happened when the two of them were undercover that had caused Bobby to blow the mission in Hugo?

 ** _Denver_**

Nathan slipped quietly into Buck's room, letting the door fall softly closed behind him. His caution was for naught, however: Buck shifted restlessly against the pillows and after a few seconds, his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey, Nate." Buck's voice was raspy, barely above a whisper.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Nathan replied, studying his friend. His heart sank as he noted the cheeks flushed with fever, the glazed eyes, and the increasingly labored breathing.

Buck shook his head, just a slight movement against the pillows. "Wasn't really asleep. More like...drifting." He brought up one hand dangling IV lines to rub against his chest. "Feels like I've got a mountain sitting on me."

Nathan reached one hand out to briefly touch Buck's. "I know. I'm sorry. Just try to breathe evenly. Don't struggle so hard." He looked away. "They still don't know what was in the breathing treatment," he confessed.

Buck managed a smile. "Knew that. You'd have told me if they'd found out something."

"They'll figure it out," Nathan vowed.

"Any word from the guys?"

Nathan shook his head. "Guess they're all still on schedule." He glanced at his watch. "Figure they should show up early this afternoon."

Buck nodded. He blinked sleepily. "Nathan, can you do me a favor?" He asked suddenly.

"Sure thing. Name it."

Buck motioned toward the bedside table. "There's one of those accordion file things in there." He waited until Nathan had opened the drawer and pulled it out. "Take it with you. Nathan, I don't want Chris to see it. Ever. If I, well if something happens to me-" he held up a hand to stop Nathan's instinctive protest. "Give it to Vin. Tell him there's a letter in there, for him. And tell JD-"

"Stop!" Nathan ordered. "You're going to be fine, Buck. Fine. You going to let all the ladies of Denver down?"

"Hell, Nathan...I'm not _plannin'_ on going anywhere. This is just-" Buck broke off breathlessly. After a few seconds, he went on, his voice noticeably weaker. "Tell JD to look in the cigar box. He'll know what you're talkin' about." A sudden look of shock crossed Buck's face, followed by profound sadness. "I don't know if it was destroyed in the bombing, but-"

The door banged open. Nathan whirled around, hand automatically going to his weapon and then dropping away as he recognized Dani, one of the day shift nurses.

She seemed to realize his alarm. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. The cop wasn't out there," she apologized. She shifted her attention to Buck. "Hey, there, Gorgeous, how're you doing today? Ready for me to take your vitals?"

"Darlin', you can take anything of mine you want," Buck replied with a flash of his usual spirit.

"Bet you say that to all the nurses. Matter of fact, I _know_ you do." She laughed at him, pulling out the thermometer and inserting it into its little plastic sleeve.

Buck caught Nathan's eye and made a face. "Not what I was hoping to have stuck in my mouth."

"You're so bad," Nathan replied, forcing a smile. He was trying to watch the nurse without being obvious about it. She pumped up the blood pressure cuff, listening through the stethoscope. She let it deflate all the way before repeating the action. She took Buck's pulse and then reached for the thermometer.

She frowned. It was a quick change of expression but Nathan caught it and so did Buck. The woman excused herself and hastily left the room.

"Guess it wasn't too good," Buck commented.

Nathan opened his mouth, couldn't think of anything to say and closed it again. He reached over and rested the back of his hand on Buck's forehead. The skin under his fingers felt hotter than it had just a few minutes ago. _'Damn,'_ he thought to himself. He met Buck's understanding eyes. "Your temperature is up a bit," he said, having to say something. He changed the subject, or tried to. "What's this, anyway?" he asked, hefting the accordion file.

Buck's blue eyes rested on the folder. "Too much," he whispered.

"Huh?" Nathan was confused.

Buck just shook his head. "Long story." He frowned, wincing, trying to shift in the bed. He coughed, one hand going up instinctively to protect his ribs. Nathan hastily poured some water into the cup and held it for Buck to drink.

After a few sips, Buck leaned back against his pillows. "Where's the guard?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" Then Nathan followed Buck's thoughts. He hesitated, but finally said, reluctantly, "The Denver PD pulled the guard off today. But Travis is sending over someone to cover-"

Buck shook his head, slipping lower into the bed. His eyes fluttered sleepily. "Why'd they pull the guard?" he asked. Nathan knew he was fighting sleep. He hesitated again, but couldn't see any harm in telling him.

"Marcus Hoyt was killed at the jail yesterday."

For a minute he didn't think Buck had heard him; thought he'd already surrendered to sleep. But then Buck's midnight-blue eyes snapped open. "What did you say?" he breathed.

Nathan frowned, not understanding Buck's reaction. "Hoyt was killed. Looks like just a jailhouse skirmish. The Denver PD thinks with him gone you're out of danger but-Buck! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

What Buck was doing was trying to get up. Nathan caught him by the shoulders and just in time. Not that Buck would actually have been able to get out of bed but God alone knew the damage he could do just trying. Buck struggled against Nathan's gentle hold, his breathing growing harsh in his throat. "Let go," he muttered, eyes unfocused. "I gotta find Sarah..."

"Sarah?" Nathan repeated, at a loss. "Sarah who?" He didn't remember Buck dating anyone by that name recently. He frowned. A stray thought niggled the back of his mind-Chris' wife had been named Sarah, but why would Buck be thinking about her? His temperature wasn't high enough for him to be delirious. "Buck you just need to relax a bit-"

"Let me up!" Buck forced out. He started to say something else but broke off as violent coughing tore through his battered body. Again and again the violent spasms wracked him, crushing his body with the pain, robbing his lungs of life-giving oxygen. Panic roared through him, sending his heart racing and stealing what little air he had left.

"Easy, Buck," Nathan soothed. His own pulse pounded in his ears as he risked a glance up at the monitor to see the readings approaching the alarm levels.

"Just try to relax," he coached, gripping the other man's shoulder tightly.

Buck seemed to hear him and tried to obey, curling his body around his aching ribs as much as his injured leg would allow. Sweat soaked his dark hair and dampened the hospital gown.

Gradually, slowly, the coughing eased, tapering off. Buck's shoulders heaved with the effort of taking in oxygen. The cords in his throat stood out, but the bluish tinge around his mouth started to fade. Nathan eased his grip, still talking soothingly. He could feel Buck's trembling muscles relax slightly under his hand.

Buck sighed, then took in a deeper breath.

"Buck?" Nathan felt cold chills shiver down his back as Wilmington's eyes widened in panic. "Buck!"

Buck's free hand flew to his chest, clawing at the skin as if he could force in air. The blue around his mouth deepened. A choking, high-pitched rattle was torn from his throat.

"Oh, God," Nathan breathed, knowing the sound for what it was. Strider. Blocked airway. An alarm shrieked a shrill warning. Buck started to shake.

"Hang on, Buck," Nathan ordered, feeling panic churning his stomach but knowing he had to be calm, try to keep Buck calm. He lunged for the call button. The door opened and he whirled around.

"What the hell-" Chris Larabee stood in the doorway.

"Chris, get help!" Nathan ordered. "Now! He's in respiratory distress." Then, as Chris hesitated, his eyes glued to Buck's face, he roared, "Now! Damn it, move!"

Chris took off as if all the hounds of Hell were at his heels.

 _tbc..._


	13. Chapter 13

**Part 12  
**  
 ** _Denver-Purgatorio Section_**

Vin parked his Jeep in front of the shabby brick building he called home. For a few minutes he just stared out the window, not seeing what was in front of him. His mind's eye kept replaying the picture of the young red haired kid, jerking as the bullet entered his body, then sliding lifelessly to the ground...then the flash as the grenade exploded...

He knew he had had no choice. He had to shoot the kid; had to try for a killing shot. That was his job, to protect his teammates, to protect the innocent who might be caught up in violence. No matter how many times he went over those few seconds in his mind, the conclusion was always the same. _He had to shoot_.

But that didn't stop him from seeing the look on the kid's face as he'd died.

Two preteen boys swaggered down the street toward him, moving with the slouchy strut of half-grown lions surveying the land they wanted to claim. They shared a cigarette. One caught sight of a pretty girl in an upstairs window and made a rude remark. They laughed, sniggering, elbowing each other in the ribs.

Then the second youth caught sight of Vin in his jeep. His eyes widened and he elbowed his friend again, harder this time, and nodded towards Vin. Insolence wiped clean of both faces; they straightened up, one pulling up his tattered jeans, the other quickly dropping the cigarette and stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. Vin knew both the kids, of course. They played on the neighborhood basketball team he coached. Both had older brothers in the local gangs. Vin, like the nuns at the nearby convent, knew that lecturing the kids not to take up with the gangs wouldn't work. Peer pressure was too strong a force, especially when backed up by guns, knives and chains. What Vin hoped to do was provide a positive alternative.

An alternative he himself hadn't had.

An alternative that Sammy Parker had never had.

Sighing, he got out of the jeep, reaching behind the seat for his duffel. "Pete," he greeted the taller boy. "Raoul. How you boys been? Ready for the game tomorrow?" He'd arranged a pick-up game with the Denver-Downtown YMCA.

Both boys nodded, flushed and embarrassed, looking like - well, like they'd been caught doing something they swore they never did. "You have a good trip, Vin?" Pete asked, his unctuous tone reminding Vin of Eddie Haskell in old _Leave it to Beaver_ reruns.

Vin's grin vanished. "Work," he replied shortly, heading up the cracked cement steps to the front door.

"You shoot anyone?"

It was an innocent question. Coming from one of the older brothers it wouldn't have been, but Pete and Raoul were still young enough that the violence they saw on their TVs and even in front of their homes didn't seem to touch them.

Vin froze.

 _Sammy Parker's body jerking around, blood on his shirt. Crumpling into the hard packed Oklahoma mud..._

Vin didn't say anything. He couldn't. There wasn't anything to say. Turning his back on the boys, he fumbled for his keys.

 **7777777**

The air in the apartment was stale and musty-smelling. Dropping his duffel in the entranceway, Vin made his way over to the windows that looked out over the street. He opened all three of them, letting the damp but fresh air rush into the apartment.

The phone rang. Vin froze, his back to it. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. _'It might be about Buck.'_ Then he shook his head. Buck was well on the road to recovery. Vin would go see him later.

Right now he needed to be alone.

The phone rang three, four times, then the answering machine picked up. Whoever it was didn't leave a message, just the click of disconnection. Vin walked over to the phone and switched off the ringer.

It had probably been Chris. Vin knew his friend would have gone directly to the hospital to check on Buck and check in with Nathan. Once convinced the two of them had survived the absence of the others, the team leader would head to his small ranch outside of town.

Vin headed into the small, Spartan kitchenette. He opened the refrigerator, starting to reach for a can of beer. He hesitated, then let the door close. He opened the cabinet above the fridge. It contained a half-full bottle of Jim Beam and an almost-full bottle of vodka, both left over from the last time he'd had the guys over. He poured a healthy amount of the amber colored whiskey into a plastic tumbler and walked into the living room.

His cell phone shrilled. Swearing under his breath, Vin yanked it from his belt and clicked it off, tossing it on to the couch. _'Don't want to talk to anybody right now...'_ He gulped at the whiskey until he felt the sting. He knew he shouldn't ignore the cell. Chris would have his hide for that. But Vin just couldn't talk to anyone right now.

And just then someone knocked on the door. Vin shook his head and dropped into the battered armchair he'd found at a local flea market. "I'm not here," he muttered quietly.

Whoever it was, was persistent. They knocked three more times before ceasing. Vin nodded, satisfied. Then bolted upright as a woman's voice called through the door. "Agent Tanner? Vin?"

"What the hell-?" Vin recognized the voice. He stumbled to his feet and flung the door open.

Monica Hastings stood in front of him.

 ** _Denver  
University Medical Center_**

Chris hovered at the door of the waiting room. He and Nathan had been unceremoniously ejected from Buck's room to make room for more and more medical personnel. Nathan sat on one of the shapeless couches, staring into a Styrofoam cup of coffee. There had been absolute silence between the two men since Nathan had finished filling Chris in on Buck's condition.

Chris stared down the hall, longing to be back in the room with Buck, to check on him with his own eyes. His mind rang with the words Nathan had just said.

Pneumonia.

It wasn't that he hadn't known that was a possibility. Dr. Culver had been frank about it all along - pneumonia was a likely complication of Buck's injuries. Although Chris intellectually knew it was a _dangerous_ complication, he emotionally didn't accept the danger. _Old people_ died of pneumonia. People with AIDS or cancer. Not a healthy, virile man still in his thirties.

 _Not Buck._

But then, Nathan had told him the rest of it.

Chris couldn't believe it. Didn't _want_ to believe it. Someone had attacked Buck in the supposed safety of his hospital room? How the hell could that have happened? _Again?_ With a police guard on the door and Nathan sitting right there next to the bed?

 _'Hell,'_ he thought guiltily _. 'Yvette Morales got to him when he was in ICU with me sitting right there.'_

 **7777777**

Nathan watched his friend warily. He very rarely fell victim to the infamous Larabee temper, but suspected he would today.

 _'Hell, I'll be lucky if he doesn't shoot me. Damn it! I let a killer attack Buck right in front of me and didn't do a damn thing to stop him!'  
_  
Chris rubbed his tired eyes, looking down the hallway. Something occurred to him and he turned to face Nathan.

"Where's the guard on Buck's door?" His voice was tight.

"The Denver Police pulled it off." Nathan went on hastily, "AD Travis said he'd arrange for some of the guys from Team Three and maybe Team Eight to cover."

Chris ignored the last remark. "They pulled the guard?" He repeated icily. "Why?"

Nathan shrugged, stepping past Chris to gaze down the hallway in turn. _'Sure is taking them a long time in there.'_ He turned, realizing Chris was waiting for an answer. "With Hoyt dead they don't think there's any more danger to Buck-"

"Someone tried to murder Buck — _again!_ \- right in his own hospital room and the Denver PD doesn't think he's in any _danger?_ " Chris' voice was an icy hiss of suppressed rage. His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, with Hoyt's death? Hoyt's dead?"

"You didn't hear?" Nathan questioned. Then he mentally kicked himself. _'Well, obviously.'_ He wondered if there was a limit to how many inane statements he could utter in one conversation. Aloud he hurried to say, "Someone stabbed Marcus Hoyt yesterday in the County Jail. He was DOA."

The line between Chris' eyes deepened. "Who killed him?"

"Some guy in for possession of cocaine." Nathan had to struggle to think of the name. "Justin… no, Dustin Renhold. Just a small-time dealer. He said Hoyt gave him attitude in the lunch line or something. Police think he's probably just trying to get himself a reputation on the street."

Chris' face darkened even further. "Damn it!" he exploded. "Hoyt was our link to Bolo Orlowski!"

"What?" Nathan really didn't have a clue as to what Chris was talking about. Bolo Orlowski - the name had come up as a suspect in the bombing of Buck's apartment but as far as Nathan knew Buck had vehemently denied any link. "Chris...I don't understand...if Hoyt's dead, the contract is off. Even if it _was_ Bolo Orlowski, Buck should be safe now."

Chris whirled on him. "Bolo Orlowski killed my wife and son!"

"What?" Nathan was astonished. "How the-"

"Buck told me," Chris explained. "Just before we left for Oklahoma." He rubbed one hand across his face. "He's known - or suspected - all of these years and he never told me before - he was trying to protect me, damn him." The words were soft, half to himself.

Nathan thought about the thick folder Buck had entrusted to him. What had Buck said? Not to give it to Chris but to make sure it got to Vin, if Buck- _'Damn.'_ He was suddenly sure the folder had something to do with what Chris was saying. But what could be in it? Why would Bolo Orlowski have been involved in the deaths of Chris' wife and son? How would Buck even know if he was?

Nathan looked up and nudged Chris' shoulder as the door to Buck's room opened. Dr. Culver exited, followed by a couple of white-coated interns. Culver nodded at Chris and Nathan. "Agent Larabee. Agent Jackson."

"How's Buck?" Chris demanded.

Culver waved the interns away and gestured for the two ATF agents to follow him back into the waiting area. "Buck's condition is stabilized, for the moment."

"What does _that_ mean?" Chris sat on the edge of one of the too-soft couches.

"It means - at the moment - Buck is breathing on his own." Culver sighed. He looked as tired as Nathan felt. "There is some edema - swelling - in the pleural lining that is not related to the pneumonia. We have to assume that it's being caused by whatever was in that breathing treatment. Until we can identify the compound, all we can do is treat the symptoms."

Nathan swallowed hard. Chris looked worried but a little confused. "So what is this 'edema' going to do?"

"Make it increasingly difficult for him to breathe." Culver was blunt. "I've ordered him back into ICU. I think both of you realize that the pneumonia by itself would have been difficult enough. Buck's still weak from the original trauma and surgery."

"So what are you saying?"

The doctor sighed again. "Buck has to be one of the most strong-willed people I've ever met. He's a fighter. But right now, I don't think he has the reserves to fight with. His temperature is going up, his blood pressure is dropping. His body is worn out. He doesn't have the strength to keep fighting. " He paused. I've advised him he needs to go back on the respirator.

Nathan frowned. "But if there's pulmonary edema-"

The doctor nodded. "That's the risk."

"Risk of what?" Chris demanded.

"If we put him back on the respirator, his lungs might become damaged enough that even if he lives, we could never wean him off of it." He looked up, met Chris' horrified gaze. "He'd be on life support indefinately."

 **~+~+~+~  
**  
There were two seats open on the flight to Denver. One was in First Class and JD let Bobby have it. Fewell was tall, long-legged like Buck and Josiah. JD remembered a couple months back when they'd had to fly to Seattle for a case and some new secretary had booked them on a cut-rate airline. The four six-plus-footers had griped all the way there and all the way back.

JD's smile vanished as reality hit him again. The warmth-the family he had felt he had then-was that all gone now? How could things change so fast?

He was just as glad to be away from Bobby for a while. He needed to think.

JD knew - he _knew_ \- that Ezra wasn't dirty. Ezra hadd been set up in Atlanta. Heck, JD had been listening through the earphones when the man who'd framed him had boasted about it!

 _'But what else happened?'_ He couldn't silence the niggling voice of doubt. Bobby was right, the entire FBI - and not just the Atlanta bureau -had turned against Ezra. Not one of his coworkers had ever harbored the slightest doubt of his guilt? Not one person had spoke up in his defense?

And what had happened to Bobby's cousin? Bobby blamed Ezra for whatever had happened to him, but what _had_ happened to him? And how had Ezra been involved?

JD leaned his head back in the seat and closed his eyes. He was so tired suddenly, so confused. He hated these doubts about Ezra, but he kept coming back to the simple facts - Bobby was his friend. Why would Bobby lie? Or if not lie, why was he so convinced Ezra was dirty?

What had happened in that hotel in Shreveport? Who had Ezra been with? Could it have really been that kid from the bust? That didn't make sense. But who else could it be?

God, he missed Buck. He _needed_ to talk to him. Buck could make everything all right again.

Just like a big brother.

 _'He's not your brother.'_ JD could hear Bobby's voice in his memory. _'Team Seven is not a family.'_

"Yes, we are!" he whispered fiercely. The woman next to him looked over the top of her magazine.

Were they?

Unbidden the thought of that last night at the hospital came to him. Buck had lied to him. Buck _still_ wasn't telling him the whole story. And Chris...Chris had yelled terrible things at Buck and then gone off to Oklahoma without even a worry. He hadn't even _checked_ on him. Well, okay, JD didn't really know that for sure. But Chris had never mentioned anything about it and neither had Nathan or Buck when JD had called...

 _"We are on final approach to Denver International Airport. At this time we request that all carry on baggage be secured, seatbelts firmly fastened, seats returned to the upright position..."_

 **7777777**

Bobby was waiting when JD got off the plane. "Hey," he said, falling in as they followed the herd of people to the baggage claim area. "You need a ride?"

JD shook his head. "I left Buck's pickup here," he replied.

"Cool." Bobby seemed in good spirits. He chattered on as they took the escalator down, about the woman who'd been seated next to him on the flight. JD really didn't listen. He didn't care. He just wanted to get his bag and go home.

He shivered as the thought burst over him again like a sickening storm. _'I don't_ _ **have**_ _a home anymore.'_

"Hey, JD." Bobby jostled his elbow as they waited for their bags to appear. "You think you'd be interested in that apartment at my place? 'Cause I know the rental agent-could maybe ask him to hold it for you."

JD shook his head automatically. "No. Thanks, Bobby, but I don't think so."

Bobby frowned, then shrugged, stepping away as he spotted his bag. "Well if you change your mind let me know. It's a great place, like I said, view of the pool." He turned, giving JD a casual salute as he headed toward the shuttle bus. "Think about it. You don't want to be someone's houseguest the rest of your life, do you?"

 **7777777**

JD had meant to drive straight to the hospital but he found himself taking a detour.

The converted warehouse that had been his home for the last three years stood, crippled and forlorn, abandoned on the corner. No cars in front of it or in the parking lot to the side. A large bold sign warned away the criminal and the curious.

JD parked in front of the building. Yellow crime scene tape and orange plastic netting surrounded the perimeter. Plywood barricaded most of the windows. JD's eyes went to one particular set of windows on the top floor.

The windows of what had once been his bedroom.

Slowly his eyes traveled over to the shattered brick wall. That had been Buck's loft bedroom. The whole wall blown out with the force of the explosion that had almost killed Buck.

Destroyed JD's home and security.

Robbed him of the family he thought he'd found.

Could it ever be repaired? There was damage to the support. Damage to the foundation.

The building was no longer sound.

JD's belief in his family, his brother, had received the same shattering blow as the foundations of the building.

Home.

Destroyed.

Family?

Maybe not anymore. Maybe they never had been.

After a long moment, JD reached for his cell phone. He punched in a number from memory. After three rings, voice mail picked up.

He could hang up.

He didn't.

"Bobby. It's JD. Hey...if you don't mind, talk to that rental agent. I think...I think I might be interested in the apartment after all."

 _tbc..._


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 13**

Chris stared at the doctor in disbelief. "What did you just say?" he asked, his voice very calm, very even. His face however revealed his true feelings, a mask of pain.

Dr. Culver met his eyes squarely. "Buck's refusing to consent, Chris. He won't allow us to put him back on the respirator."

Nathan cleared his throat. "You told him the risks?"

Culver nodded. "It would have been unethical not to. Buck had to know there was a risk he'd be unable to come off life support. That his lungs might be too damaged to sustain his life without mechanical intervention. I hope he'll change his mind. In my opinion the benefits far outweigh the risks. If we can find out what the toxin is that is affecting his lungs...help his body fight off the pneumonia...but for now, Buck is adamant about not wanting to-"

"Damn," Nathan uttered softly. He respected Buck's feelings - even understood in a way - but the thought that his friend might die chilled him to the bone. "How long does he have before he _has_ to go on the respirator?"

Culver rubbed his eyes. "I'd like to move him to ICU and put him on it right now," he answered bluntly. "His body is exhausted. The edema in his lungs isn't going to go away any time soon - his condition is going to get much worse before it gets better... _if_ he gets better. But-"

 _"Do it."_

Chris had been staring out the window. Now he turned to face the two stunned men. "Do it. Put him on the respirator."

Nathan's eyes widened. "Chris...Chris, I understand what you're feeling but Buck has the right to make his own decisions-"

"No, he doesn't! Buck does _not_ have the right to give up fighting. He does _not_ have the right to just let himself slip away. He does _not_ have the right to leave JD. Or Ezra. Or any of us. Damn it! He does _not_ have the right to die without fighting to live!" He spun on his heel and started out of the room.

Nathan scrambled to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to Buck. To make him change his mind." Chris fixed his icy green eyes on Culver. "But even if he doesn't, go ahead and make the arrangements. I have his power of attorney. If I have to swear to a judge he's incompetent to make his own medical decisions, then I will. I am _not_ going to let Buck die. Not if there's anything that can be done to prevent it." Chris stalked out.

Left behind, Nathan and Culver stared at each other, the passion in Chris' voice still reverberating the air after he'd left the room.

"Monica?" Vin exclaimed in surprise. "What're you doin' here?"

The bright smile dimmed from her face. Suddenly aware of how that must have sounded, Vin stepped back and waved her inside. "Please, come on in." He felt his own face flushing. "I just got home," he said, unnecessarily as she had to detour around his duffel bag to get into the small living room.

She turned to face him. "I'm sorry for just dropping in-"

"I'm not," Vin said, surprising even himself. He caught her hand. "I was just surprised to see you. But I'm glad. Real glad."

They looked at each other, then broke into identical smiles. Vin realized he was still holding her hand and he gently guided her to the shabby but comfortably overstuffed couch. "Take a seat."

She sat on the end, automatically slid into the corner and slid one foot under her body. Vin blinked. Noticing his look, Monica Hastings blushed again and quickly straightened up, placing both feet primly on the floor. It dawned on Vin she was dressed much more casually than he'd ever seen her, in blue jeans and running shoes.

"Sorry," she apologized again. "Force of habit."

Vin shook his head and dropped down to sit next to her. "It's okay," he said gently. "You can't hurt this old thing and...and I like to see you sit that way. My ma...my mother used to sit that way." He stared into space and memory. "We had an old battered couch like this one...she always used to curl into one corner with one foot up like you." He blinked and looked down at the cheerful, if faded, print that covered the couch as if he'd never seen it before. "Guess that was why I bought this old thing in the first place. Reminded me."

"Good memories."

"Yeah." Vin mentally shook himself. "So, what brings you to the Purgatorio in the middle of the day?"

"Herbs."

Vin blinked. "Herbs?"

"You're going to laugh," she warned him, smiling.

"Try me," Vin challenged.

"I needed some powdered toadstool."

Vin just stared at her, fighting the grin.

"I told you!"

"I'm not laughing!"

"You _want_ to," she smiled. "Go ahead. I know how it sounds. But there really are legitimate medicinal uses for it. Try to get a legitimate distributor to carry it! The last one asked me if I needed it to chant incantations under a full moon. But there's a Chinese apothecary near here that has some. So I just buy locally."

"Chang's, over on fifteenth?" She nodded. "That's thirteen blocks from here," Vin pointed out.

"True. But," she sighed. "Now you _will_ laugh. I'm an idiot about cars. Mine's been making this funny noise for the last few days and I just kind of ignored it. I _meant_ to call the mechanic but...well, I didn't. Anyway there's this awful pothole coming out of the driveway of Chang's. I hit it full on and there was this horrible crash." She sighed. "My tailpipe fell off. Right there in the street!"

"Your tailpipe? Or the muffler?"

She looked startled. "There's a difference?"

Vin had to grin at that. "Where's the car now?" he asked, already reaching for his jacket.

"I left it at a repair place near there."

"Terry's?" Vin asked. At her nod, he said, "That's good. Terry's a good guy. He'll fix it up just fine."

"He said it would be tomorrow. He didn't have a - whatever it was - in stock that would fit it. But he was really nice about it, said he could get one..."

Monica drove a sleek, custom designed Stealth. Terry was probably drooling at the thought of having it in his possession, even if for only a day.

Vin frowned. What would a woman who knew absolutely nothing about cars be doing with one like that anyway?

Before he could ask, Monica supplied the answer. She sighed. "That car is such a responsibility. I never owned one before. Either I drove my uncle's or when I got old enough I just leased one. The agency took care of all the upkeep. But...the Stealth was my cousin's-"

"Nina's?"

"What?" She frowned. "Oh, no. Another cousin." She stopped and swallowed hard; Vin could see tears sparkling on her long lashes before she quickly wiped them away.

The sight made him feel oddly protective. He moved closer to her. "Your cousin?" he prompted gently.

"He...died recently. About six months ago. He...He was always laughing at me about just driving whatever was available, so I felt like...Nina took his cat, I took his car." She laughed a little, wiping the last of the tears away with her fist in an oddly childlike gesture. "I think Nina made the easier choice! Pasha - the cat - takes care of himself. The _car_ , on the other hand, seems to need something constantly!" She waved her hand, changing the subject. "Anyway, when I realized how close I was to your apartment, I walked over. I thought if you weren't home I could call a cab just as easily from here. But if you were-" She peeped at him from under thick eyelashes still damp from tears. "-Maybe we could go to lunch?"

Vin started to say he really ought to get to the office - Travis and Montgomery would probably want to know about what went down in Hugo, he had a report to file - but he didn't utter the words. Sammy Parker's dead body rose up in his memory again and he shut his eyes, trying to shut it away.

"Vin?"

Vin opened his eyes again. Monica looked worried - more than that, crystal teardrops trembled on her lashes again. "I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't-"

"No." Vin reached out and captured her hand, holding it tightly. He didn't know what to say, but finally rushed out the truth. "I'm glad you're here. You like Italian food? Luigi's has the best in town."

Five minutes later they'd left the apartment, headed - via Vin's jeep - for Luigi's Cafe Italiano. Vin's cell phone rested - forgotten -in the cushion of the chair where he'd tossed it.

Two minutes later, the shrill ring of the phone cut through the silence of the apartment.

It rang fifteen times before stopping.

 _tbc..._


	15. Chapter 15

**Part 14**

"Chris!" Nathan hurried down the corridor after Larabee, snatching his arm to slow him down. "Damn it, would you _listen_ to me for a minute?"

Chris stopped, but less because of Nathan's grip than because of his surprise at the soft-spoken medic resorting to an obscenity. "What?" he demanded impatiently.

 _'Damn, where's Josiah when I need him?'_ Nathan thought desperately. _'Or better yet, Vin...'_

Truth to tell, Nathan didn't really understand the complicated relationship between Chris and Buck. That there was friendship there he never doubted - deep, abiding friendship, and fierce loyalty, and the kind of love that only comes about when two friends have been through the fire together.

It shamed Nathan now to admit - even to himself - how wrong he'd been about both men and their friendship when he first joined Team Seven. Vin had joined the team not long after Nathan, and in Vin, Chris had seemed to find a missing part of his soul. Chris' manner with Buck back in those early days had been casual, sometimes distant - even occasionally cruel. Buck just shrugged Chris' moods off and seemed to focus on _his_ new friendship with JD, and his continuing reputation as a ladies' man. Nathan had pegged him early on as one dimensional, maybe even shallow. But later Josiah pointed out that all that time Buck was doing his part to forge Team Seven with unbreakable bonds, even if that often meant diverting Chris' temper onto his own head.

Gradually Nathan changed his opinion about Buck, realizing under that devil-may-care exterior was a deeply caring man who was fiercely protective of his friends. And Nathan had seen that Chris was _his_ friend - even if Chris didn't seem to return the feelings.

It wasn't until the MacPherson case crumbled into disaster around their heads with Buck's disappearance had Nathan fully realized just how much Chris Larabee _did_ care about his old partner. The quiet desperation and the agony just below the surface were very much like what Nathan was seeing now.

"Chris." Nathan spoke harshly; he had to make Chris realize how important this was. "You go in there like this and all you're going to do is rile Buck up even more."

Chris narrowed his eyes. "What do you suggest?" he asked suspiciously.

 _'OK, good, he's willing to listen.'_ "Chris, Buck has the right-"

Wrong choice of words.

"Buck doesn't _have_ the right to _die!_ " Chris exploded. "He doesn't _have_ the right to leave JD alone. To desert the team. To-" he bit back his words.

Nathan blinked, mentally filling in the sentence _"-to leave me_." "Chris, I know it's hard. Hell, I don't like the idea either," he tried again. "But a man has to make his own decisions. You can't _make_ Buck go on a respirator."

 _"Can't I?"_ Chris asked, his voice eerily calm. "Watch me." He turned again.

"Chris!" Nathan caught his arm again. "I'm not going to let you-"

Chris' eyes flashed emerald fire. The lines of his face deepened. _"Don't_ get in my way, Nathan." His voice was a cold hiss. "You want him to die?"

Nathan flinched, but held his ground. "You know I don't. But, Chris, this _is_ Buck's decision. You're going to force him to go on life support in opposition to his expressed wishes? You can't do that to him. Even if you _could_ get a judge to go along with it, could you honestly do that to Buck? Damn it Chris, he's your friend-"

"Stop." Chris' voice was barely a whisper. "Don't you dare try to tell me what I can and can't do, Nathan. Buck _is_ my friend." He swallowed hard. "He stood beside me at my wedding and held my son at his christening. He was right there beside me when I buried Sarah and Adam and damn it, Nathan, if it weren't for him they'd have buried me, too. And that's why I will not let him commit suicide." Pushing past Nathan, he strode down the corridor to Buck's room and flung open the door.

"Shit," Nathan said aloud. He hesitated, then sprinted into the waiting room and reached for the telephone. Punching in the number of Vin's cell phone, he impatiently listened to one, two, five rings before there was a click and a Vin's recorded voice instructed him to leave a message. "Damn!" he swore again, disconnecting and quickly pounding the numbers to Vin's home phone. That one rang and rang again with no answer.

Moving stiffly, Ezra Standish stepped out of the cab that had delivered him from the airport and paid the driver. Then, stooping to pick up the single bag he carried, he slowly walked down the pathway to his condo.

He twisted keys in the sturdy new locks Josiah had provided after the bomb had been planted in his apartment. The top one stuck a bit and he jiggled the key in the lock. It seemed forever before the lock snapped back and the door opened.

Once inside the tile hallway he simply dropped his bag. Most of his clothes needed laundering but he didn't even have the energy to take them into the small room off the kitchen that housed his washer and dryer. Dropping into his favorite armchair, he snagged the plaid blanket (a gift from Vin the previous Christmas) off the back of the couch and wrapped it around his chilled body. Then he stared apathetically at the smooth walls of the living room.

Depression, loneliness, hovered over him like heavy clouds.

Sometime later the phone started ringing. After the third ring, Ezra shifted his eyes to it but made no move to answer it. The answering machine clicked on. A man's voice filled the room, cultured, robust and more than slightly annoyed. _"Standish. This is AAD Montgomery. Be in my office at eight, tomorrow morning."_ With no further explanation the phone clicked dead.

Ezra closed his eyes and rubbed his aching head. _'Shit,'_ he thought numbly.

There was no doubt what Montgomery wanted to talk about. Well, not the specific details but Ezra had no doubt all Hell was about to break lose upon his unprotected head. He didn't know what exactly Bobby Fewell might have reported but he'd seen that look on too many faces in his past not to know he was being set up, for something.

But how could he prove it?

Bobby Fewell was the darling child of the whole ATF. Scion of a long line of government agents, and personal protege of David Montgomery, who had the ear and confidence of AD Orrin Travis. Hell, even Ezra's own teammates would probably believe Bobby-he cut that thought off ruthlessly.

The phone rang again.

Suddenly Ezra didn't want to hear another voice, get any more messages. He reached over and yanked the phone cord from the wall. Then with a spurt of energy he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and clicked it off.

That might deter Montgomery for a while but it wouldn't stop his teammates. "I'm somewhat astounded Mr. Larabee isn't pounding on the door at this very moment," Ezra mused aloud. His voice sounded flat and dead in the quiet room.

 _'I can't talk to them right now. I can't face them.'_

 _'You have to,'_ another voice in his head argued.

Several moments passed in silent contemplation. Finally, with a heartfelt sigh, Ezra rose from the chair. He straightened his tie, thought briefly of changing his travel-weary clothes for fresh, then discarded the idea. He needed to do this now. He pulled his keys from his pocket, locked the door behind him, and retraced his steps to the covered parking spot that housed his Jaguar.

 **7777777**

Several miles away, David Wyerly sat alone in his uncle's library enjoying a drink. His uncle was upstairs resting before dinner. David was feeling restless. He should be happy. He'd had a meeting with several of his uncle's business associates earlier in the day. It was very obvious they were regarding him as Steven's replacement and the heir to the Curran empire.

Although his uncle never said anything to discourage his subordinates, David knew he wasn't completely comfortable with the idea. _'He doesn't think I'm worthy to walk in Steven's shoes."_ David stared into the fire. _'He's right. I'm not.'_

If - when! - he killed Standish it would be different. His uncle would realize the future would be in safe hands with David at the helm.

But that wasn't the reason he was going to kill Standish with his own hands.

He had to do it. For Steven. When he felt the warm blood of that bastard ATF agent spilling over his hands...when he saw the light dim and die from those traitorous green eyes...then Steven could rest in peace.

Then David could _let_ him rest in peace...

Something beeped.

Frowning, David reached into his pocket. His hand froze halfway there. The low-pitched noise wasn't his pager. Eyes wide, beginnings of a delighted smile crossing his handsome face, he swung around to the desk where he'd placed his briefcase. Snapping over the latches he flung open the lid and pulled the beeping device from the inner pocket. It was about the size of a calculator, but thicker. A green light blipped on the screen set into the device.

"Well, Agent Standish," David purred. "You're back. And on the move, it seems."

Two minutes later he'd instructed his uncle's butler to pass on his apologies for missing dinner. Seating himself behind the wheel of his sports car, he gunned the powerful engine as he tore out of the driveway.

The feral smile never left his face.

Chris took a deep breath before he stepped into Buck's room. No matter what he'd said to Nathan, he knew Buck. Nathan was right. If he stormed into Buck's room shouting orders, all he'd accomplish would be to make Buck dig in his heels even more.

But that didn't mean he was going to let Buck defy the doctors. Chris would cajole, bully, plead, and threaten if he had to. And if that didn't work, he'd do exactly what he'd told Nathan he would do. He'd override Buck's decision and authorize the use of the respirator.

Even if doing so ruined their friendship forever.

 **7777777**

The head of the bed was elevated and pillows were stuffed around Buck, bracing his injured ribs. Sweat beaded on his forehead and the muscles in his neck stood out in sharp relief as he struggled for breath. His skin was dead white with a bluish tinge around his mouth.

Chris' legs threatened not to hold him. He gripped the bedrail tightly to support himself, nodding at the nurse sitting in the chair next to the bed. "Can I-" he stopped to clear his throat. "I need to talk to him alone."

The nurse frowned. "I'm not supposed to-"

"It's okay, Darlin'," Buck wheezed out.

The young nurse looked uncertain. She looked from Buck, to Chris, back to Buck again. Either Buck's forced grin or Chris' total lack of grin must have convinced her, because she stood up to leave. "Just a few minutes," she warned Chris. "And don't let him talk too much."

"Never been able to _stop_ him from doing that," Chris muttered but fortunately she had already left the room and didn't hear him. He sat down in the chair and looked at Buck. His old friend met his eyes briefly before he looked away.

It was hard for Chris to see Buck like this. He hesitated for a few minutes, the silence broken by the beeps of the machinery, the hum of the oxygen and Buck's strained gasps for air.

Chris waited until Buck's eyes met his again. "You know I'm not going to let you do this," he said quietly.

"Not...your call," Buck wheezed.

"The hell it's not," Chris countered.

"My life...my decision. Not yours."

Chris felt the fury rise up in his throat and opened his mouth, then slammed it shut with an effort. He took a couple of deep, calming breaths. Something about the look on Buck's face when he'd made that last comment, almost like he was baiting Chris...

And in a flash, Chris realized what Buck was trying to do. Get Chris mad. Get him to lose his temper. Divert his attention, sidetrack him.

 _'You know how to push my buttons too damn well, Pard. But I'm not going to let you get away with it this time.'_ Chris smiled ferally.

Buck saw the smile and his eyes widened, then narrowed again.

"Won't work this time, Buck," Chris said.

"What?" Buck asked warily.

Chris ignored the question. He knew Buck knew the answer anyway. He leaned forward. "Buck. You have to listen to Dr. Culver. You need to let them put you in ICU-"

"-And stick a tube in my throat and...hook me up to a machine..." Buck's voice trailed off weakly. He shook his head. "No."

"Yes."

"No, damn it!" Buck shouted. He fell back with a gasp. His face darkened and coughing spasms tore through his frame.

Terrified, keeping his voice calm with an effort, Chris grabbed Buck's flailing hand and squeezed it tightly. "Easy, easy," he coached.

When it was finally over Chris was alarmed at Buck's ashen color. He almost grabbed the call button but stopped when Buck shook his head. "No."

Chris took a couple of deep breaths. "I'm not going to argue with you," he said, his voice trembling with the effort of not yelling.

Buck looked surprised, but relieved. "Good."

Chris shook his head. "Not what you think." He leaned closer. "Buck. One way or the other you're going back on the respirator."

"What do you-?"

"If you won't give consent, _I_ will."

Buck studied Chris' face and panic darkened his eyes. "No!" He tried to sit up but Chris was waiting for the move and caught his shoulder, keeping him from rising.

"Don't make me do it, Buck. Don't _make_ me disregard your wishes," he implored. "I don't want to do it. But damn it, Buck, I _will_. I'm not going sit here and let you die!"

"I'm dyin' anyway, Chris, and you know it." Buck's voice was tired and defeated. "The doctors don't have a clue...what that poison was or how to treat it."

Chris swallowed over the lump in his throat. "You've got to give them a chance, Buck." His voice was soft but intent. "They've sent samples to every major lab in the country. It's just a matter of time." Chris leaned forward. "You've got to _give_ them the time, Buck. Your body is too weak. You can't keep fighting like this. You need some help."

Buck was quiet for a long minute. "If my body can't survive, it's time to go, Chris. You _know_ that-"

Chris frowned. Buck wouldn't meet his eyes; more than that, he was actively avoiding Chris' gaze.

The way he looked when he was trying to hide something.

"Bullshit," Chris said softly. Buck looked at him, startled.

"If there really wasn't any hope, do you think I'd be pushing you into this?" Chris demanded. "And what about JD?"

"JD?" Buck repeated weakly.

"Yeah. JD. How the hell do you expect me to tell him you took the coward's way out?"

Buck's face creased with anguish. "I'm doin' this _for_ him," he burst out. "And for you-." His eyes widened with horror at what he had just said.

"What do you mean, you're doing it for _me?"_ Chris leaned forward, pinioning Buck with his jade green gaze. "How the hell is watching you _die_ going to help me?"

The door opened and the young nurse bustled in. "Sir-" she started.

Chris jumped from the chair and whirled around. He could see Nathan behind her, his face worried. "Get out!" he ordered.

The nurse, young and inexperienced, might have actually tried to argue with him but Nathan knew better. He caught her by the arm and pulled her back. "Chris-" he said warningly.

Chris didn't let him finish. "Tell Culver to get ready to move Buck up to ICU," he snapped. Then he slammed the door shut in their faces. He turned back to the bed, "Well?" he asked, voice almost vibrating with his feelings. "I'm waiting for an answer."

For a minute the air in the room quivered with tension and the two men stared at each other, eyes locked in a duel of wills.

Then Buck's face crumpled into sadness and he sagged back against the pillows. A tear brimmed from the corner of his eye and ran down his face. He was struggling even harder to breathe but he didn't seem to be aware of it.

The sudden release of tension almost dropped Chris where he stood. Legs shaking, he slumped back down into the chair. His hand went out and gripped Buck's shoulder. "Come on, Buck. Tell me what's going on."

Buck refused to look at him. "You know the law in this state..." Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Chris reached for the damp washcloth on the table and ran it across Buck's face and neck, wincing at the heat of his skin.

"What about the law?" Chris coaxed.

"It's a lot...easier to put someone on life support than it...is to take them off. The doc says...he says...even if the poison doesn't kill me...or the pneumonia...my lungs may be too damaged to ever work again. Sooner or later...you'd have to...have to decide to..." Buck finally met Chris' bewildered gaze. "I was there, Chris," he said intently. Another tear ran down his face. "I saw...when you had to sign the papers to disconnect Adam's life...support. I know...what that did to you." He stopped, coughing again. When it ceased his voice was even weaker, barely a whisper. "And JD...he had to watch his mama...just a kid and he had to make that decision about his mama. I can't _do_ that to him, Chris. I can't do it to you."

Chris sat frozen, ice water flooding his veins.

Memories rose up before his eyes, visions of pain he'd relived too many times. Adam's frail body slipping away from him...

Then the past disappeared and he pulled himself back into the present. And the present, now, was his friend, ready to give up his life rather than cause Chris any more pain.

 _'Doesn't he know watching him die, now, would be worse than knowing he didn't even try?'_

Chris was vaguely aware of the cold trickle of tears on his own cheeks. He wiped them away hastily. "Buck-" he started, then had to stop and swallow hard. "Adam...you're right, that decison was the hardest thing I've ever done. But it was the right decision, Buck. It was time." He locked eyes with his friend. "It's not time for you. Not yet. You've got to give the doctors a chance to find out what the poison was, to find the antidote. You've got to give your body the help it needs to fight back."

Buck shook his head. "I don't think I can fight anymore," he whispered.

"Hell you can't!" Chris snapped. He pinned Buck's gaze with a fierce glare. "The Buck Wilmington _I_ know isn't a quitter." He gripped Buck's hand tightly, so tightly his own fingers cramped and went numb. "You never let me quit," he whispered intently. "I'll be damned if I let _you_ quit."

Buck was quiet for a long time, studying his face. Finally he licked his dry lips. Chris reached for the water glass, but Buck shook his head. "What if - what if my lungs _are_ too damaged...?"

Chris' mind shied away from that thought. But he had to think about it, owed his old friend the answer. "Years ago, you gave me your Power of Attorney," he said evenly. "You trusted me then to make the decision, no matter how hard it was. Trust me now, Buck. Trust all of us. I know you're tired. I know you're scared. I'll help you fight, Buck. We all will. But _you_ have to fight, too. You can't just give up."

Buck moved his head so that he was looking out the window. He stared out at the darkening sky for a long time. Chris forced himself to stay still, to stay quiet, when every impulse he had wanted to shake Buck until he agreed to the life-support.

There was a light rap on the door and Dr. Culver stepped inside. "We're ready to move you to ICU, Buck." He cleared his throat. "Do I have your consent-?

Chris sat waiting, unable to breathe.

Finally Buck looked back at Chris, then at the doctor. "Can we...wait?" he whispered, his voice choked. At Chris' look, he shook his head. "Not about ICU. I'll go. But I want...I need to talk to JD...and Vin..."

Chris frowned. JD made sense, but Vin? Buck's eyes fixed on him, begging him to understand.

Larabee looked up at the doctor. " _Can_ we stall a little on the respirator? Vin and JD should be here soon."

Culver didn't look happy, but he nodded. "Maybe. For a short time. But then-"

Buck nodded, although he wasn't looking at the doctor anymore. He was looking only at Chris. There was a different expression on his face, familiar and welcome to Chris.

Buck was going to fight.

And he trusted Chris to help him.

"I'll consent to it." Buck leaned back, his eyes closing.

Chris gripped his hand again. Relief flooded through him in a wave, leaving him tired and shaking. "Thank you," he whispered. 'I'll be there, Buck. I'll be with you all the way. And if...if the worst happens and I have to let you go, I'll do it. Because it'll be the right thing to do.

 _'And because you trust me to do it.'_

 _tbc..._


	16. Chapter 16

**Part 15  
**  
Vin and Monica Hastings lingered long over lunch. Vin discovered Monica had a rather wicked sense of humor, which appealed to his own admittedly somewhat warped humor. Her hilarious send-ups of the FDA inspectors, Nina questioning a client, and the Mayor at a recent fund-raising dinner had him holding his sides with laughter. Vin found himself longing to smuggle her into a meeting with AAD David Montgomery. For all that the man supposedly had been a great field agent, his briefings were a guaranteed cure for insomnia.

It wasn't until they were eating dessert of tiramisu for her and cannoli for Vin that the atmosphere changed. Monica had glanced up several times at the wall of picture above their table. Vin surprised a sad look on her face. He looked up, seeing-as he knew he would-picture of Luigi owners Mario and Theresa Doretti's three racehorses.

"You like horses?" Vin finally asked.

Monica nodded. "They're so beautiful."

"That they are." Vin pointed to the horse in the center. "That's Laddie-short for 'Aladdin's Lamp.' Won a bunch of races as a two year old till he hurt his shoulder. Doesn't bother him much now but it wouldn't stand up to him racin' again. The bay is Ocean Light."

Monica looked pleased. "I've heard of him. Didn't he win the Belmont...ten years ago, maybe?"

Vin was surprised she knew that. "Yeah. Retired to stud. Problem is, he's sterile. Stud that can't reproduce ain't worth much. So the Doretti's bought him. Think they've got five, maybe six out there now. Nice spread." He studied her face. "You want to go see it sometime? Mario loves havin' people visit."

Her eyes widened and a pleased smile lit up her face. "Do you think we could? That would be great. I..." she hesitated, looked down at the tablecloth. "I had a horse, my uncle gave him to me for my eleventh birthday." She smiled, apparently lost in memories. "Magic With A Bite. Probably not the best choice of name - he _did_ like to bite! Think in the two years I had him he bit everyone but me. But I lo-loved him. I suppose that sounds silly to you?"

Actually it was one of the most endearing things Vin had ever heard her say. His own horse, Peso, had been known to take a bite out of people more than once. "What happened to him?" he prodded.

Her face changed, shadows of long ago - but still harsh - grief darkened her eyes. She looked away. "My uncle sold him. He didn't even tell me until it was done. I'm sure it was my aunt's idea. I think I've told you she wanted me to be a homecoming queen, cheerleader type? Yes well-between studying in the library and taking care of Magic, I didn't have time for any of the activities _she_ thought were important. Actually it backfired. I was so angry and so..." she bit her lip. When she went on her voice was calmer. "Anyway I retreated even more. Stayed at the library until it closed and then holed up in my room. I think it was a relief to both of us when Nina got old enough to fulfill my aunt's wishes."

Vin watched her carefully. She was trying to hide it but he could see the memories still caused her pain. "I got a horse," he said conversationally.

She looked up. There was no mistaking the delight on her face. "You do? Tell me!"

"Name's Peso." Vin grinned. "Orneriest piece of horseflesh I've ever met. I keep him at my friend Chris' place. He has a little ranch out of town a ways." He made up his mind. "You want to go meet him? Peso, I mean?"

Her eyes lit up. "Can we? Now?"

Vin hesitated. "Hang on." He reached for his cell phone, only then realizing he'd left it behind. "Damn." He looked around, spotting a pay phone near the entrance. "Just a sec-"

"You need a phone?" Monica reached into her purse and pulled out hers.

Vin punched in the number of Chris' home, and got the answering machine. "Hmm. He must still be at the hospital, or maybe the office."

"Hospital?"

"Got a friend in there." Vin answered evasively.

"The agent that was injured in the explosion? I saw it on the news. How horrible. Is he going to be all right?"

"He's doin' pretty good." Vin dialed Chris' cell phone and got the _"Unavailable at this time"_ message. "Hey, Chris," he told the recording device. "I'm headin' up to your place to check on the horses. I'll get the reports done tomorrow. Tell Buck hi for me, okay? I'll be by to see him later tonight. Oh, and..." he grinned sheepishly, "I forgot my cell phone at my place, if you've been tryin' to call." He clicked Monica's phone shut. "Ready?" he asked.

"We can go?"

Vin basked in the warmth of her smile, banishing even further the coldness he'd felt since Hugo. "Sure." He reached for his wallet. "We can go right now."

JD reached Buck's pickup and climbed into the driver's seat with a tired sigh. For a few minutes he stared ahead at the stucco and wood exterior of the Roman Villa apartment complex.

Bobby Fewell had called him back not even two minutes after his call and insisted he come over right away. The property manager was on-site, Bobby had said - as a matter of fact the two of them had a date that night. The apartment was ready for viewing and JD should see it immediately. "There's usually a waiting list," Bobby had said. "But Julie says if you want it she'll move you to the head of the line. You could move in this weekend." JD initially tried to demur, but, after all, the apartment was only a couple of blocks out of his way.

Julie was very blonde, very tan, and very bubbly. She and Bobby had met JD at the office and immediately escorted him to the one-bedroom apartment looking over the pool.

It was a nice enough place, JD had to admit. He was unable to work up too much enthusiasm but he didn't really need to; Bobby and Julie were both so busy pointing out all the selling points to him and flirting with each other they didn't seem to notice JD wasn't saying anything much.

Truth to tell, no matter how nice the apartment was, JD couldn't see himself living in it. When he tried to visualize his computer desk in the corner, his DVDs and CDs on the shelves, his clothes hanging in the closet, all he could see was the comfortable, cluttered, sometimes messy but always welcoming place he and Buck had shared. When he looked at the living room with the matching furniture upholstered in a tasteful plaid, all he could see was Buck's sagging but oh-so-comfortable sectional sofa, and the coffee table JD had bought on sale six months after he'd moved in. The first "real" piece of furniture he'd ever purchased. Buck was out of town and JD had worried all weekend that Buck would hate it or feel JD had overstepped himself, buying something for _Buck's_ home. Of course, neither was true. Buck had loved it and bragged to all the guys the next day how great it looked in the living room. He'd said. _'It's your home too. Your place, long as you want to stay.'_

 _'But_ _ **home**_ _isn't there anymore,'_ JD thought sadly.

Still, when Bobby had urged him to go ahead and fill out the application and put down a deposit, JD had resisted. He said he needed to think about it. He could tell Bobby was exasperated with him, and probably confused as well, but finally Julie had offered to hold it for two days to give him some time. _"That's really all I can do,"_ she'd apologized. JD had thanked her, tactfully refused Bobby's invitation to hang out for a while and then go on to dinner with him and Julie and her roommate, and said his good-byes.

Bobby walked him to the front gate of the complex. JD dreaded his friend was going to make a last pitch for the apartment, but Bobby had something else on his mind. After clearing his throat twice, Bobby finally blurted out, "Look, JD, this may piss you off but I called AAD Montgomery this afternoon. I had to tell him about Standish."

JD stopped dead. "You had to tell him _what_ about Ezra?"

"Well, what I saw! That I saw him with that Sammy Parker kid in Shreveport the night before the bust!"

"Bobby!" JD was horrified. "You said you weren't even sure it _was_ Sammy Parker you saw!"

"Well, the more I think about it the more it makes sense," Bobby insisted. "There _was_ something going on between Standish and that kid at the barn. Anyway, Montgomery's secretary called me back. He wants me and Standish both in a meeting with him tomorrow at eight. And he's going to call you there, too."

"Me? What the hell can _I_ tell him?"

"You just need to back me up, JD. Just say that I told you about it right away. That's all," Bobby insisted. "If Standish didn't do anything wrong he doesn't have anything to worry about."

JD shook his head. "You were out of line, Bobby. Chris is the Agent In Charge of Team Seven; he answers _only_ to Travis and he's going to be _pissed_. Does he know about this?"

Bobby shrugged. "Don't know. Can't see that it makes much difference. Montgomery outranks him."

"It _matters_ because Team Seven is a REMTEF team and REMTEF teams answer _only_ to the SAC and _he_ answers only to the Assistant Director. Besides, Chris hates anybody going over his head."

"Look, I don't _work_ for Chris Larabee," Bobby answered hotly. "I work for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. And AAD Montgomery has been my supervisor throughout my whole training period. He's the one who assigned me to work with Team Seven. And he's good people; one of the best field agents ever. If Standish is dirty Montgomery will figure it out. And if he's not, no problem."

JD didn't say anything, just opened the black wrought iron gate and went towards the truck, leaving Bobby standing on the sidewalk.

Now he leaned his head back against the seat. _'I'd better call Chris,'_ he decided reluctantly. No matter what his confused feelings right now about the team leader, Larabee needed to know. He reached to the passenger seat where he'd left his cell phone. Frowning, he noticed the message indicator was lit. He'd checked it before he'd left the airport parking lot and cleared it then. _'Must have got a call while I was looking at the apartment.'  
_  
He depressed the buttons that would play back the message and held it to his ear.

His heart froze and his blood ran cold.

Chris Larabee's voice. Tired, vibrating with tension JD could hear even on the recording. _"JD. Get over to the hospital as soon as you get this message."_ Then a click. That was all there was.

"Oh, God, oh God." JD didn't even think about calling Buck's room at the hospital. He forgot all the confused, hurt, lonely feelings he'd been fighting for days. Panic blocked his mind to all but getting to his brother's side as quickly as possible.

Gears grinding, tires smoking, he screeched out of the parking lot.

Ezra parked the car in the hospital parking lot and sat quietly staring at the complex, his mind a million miles away.

There had been no answer at Chris' ranch or on his cell phone, so Ezra figured the team leader would be here, visiting Buck.

He'd sensed some strain, between Chris and young JD, recently. It made sense Chris would turn to his oldest friend if there were indeed problems between the taciturn leader and Buck's best friend.

He sighed, closed his eyes _. 'Get moving, Standish,'_ he jeered at himself. _'Go in there and tell...your friends...what is going on.'_

But what could he really tell them? That the way Bobby Fewell _looked_ at him unnerved him in a way the most violent criminal never did? There was nothing concrete he could report. No witnesses to back him up. Bobby was never friendly but he saved his most insolent behavior for when he and Ezra were alone.

And - even if there was a problem - _should_ he drag them into it? He was Ezra Standish. He solved his problems on his own, depended on no one for assistance.

With a sigh, Ezra acknowledged that wasn't true anymore. It _had_ been true for most of his life. It was the way Maude had raised him - when she _had_ raised him — to stand on his own two feet. Trust no one. Believe in no one.

That way one couldn't be hurt.

Maude's theory proved sound. He'd let down the walls, just slightly, in Atlanta and what had happened? Betrayal.

His mentor - a man he called friend - framed him, betrayed him, shot him and left him for dead.

After that Ezra swore no one else would ever get the same chance.

But six stubborn, determined men had made that vow impossible to keep. Six men he was proud to call friends.

They'd always been there for him before. But would they be this time? It was his word against Bobby Fewell's...and Bobby was everything Ezra wasn't. Who would believe Ezra? Would Chris? Nathan? JD?

Josiah probably would, and Vin was almost blindly loyal sometimes. No, not that, but once Vin gave his trust he didn't take it back. He was like Buck in that way. Probably what drew Chris to both of them...or at least kept them there when things got bad.

 _'This isn't accomplishing anything.'_

Ezra waited a few more minutes, then started the car again. He couldn't do it. Not right now. He'd go up to Chris' ranch, see to Chaucer...maybe even take a ride. That was how Vin worked out his problems. Maybe it would work for Ezra too. He put the car into gear and drove away.

Less than a minute later, Buck's battered pickup - with JD Dunne behind the wheel - screeched into the empty spot.

JD angled his body sideways to slide out of the elevator as soon as it started to open. Shoes thudding against the linoleum, he slid around the corner and down the corridor toward Buck's room.

 _'Oh, God-'_

The chair outside the room was empty and the door hung half-open.

Heart pounding painfully in his throat, JD stepped inside the room.

The bed was empty, covers pulled back and disheveled, IV and monitors disconnected. Buck's personal things - the flowers and stuffed animals, the silly clock JD had given him - were still there.

"Oh God oh God no!" He was only faintly aware of his own voice, heavy with fear, saying it over and over again. Clutching his arms tightly around his stomach, he forced his feet further into the room.

'Buck-oh God, Buck, please don't be...'

"JD?"

JD whirled around. Nathan was standing in the doorway.

"Where's Buck?" JD demanded.

Nathan hesitated, a puzzled look on his face. "He's-"

"Where?" JD almost shouted.

When Nathan didn't answer quickly enough JD pounced on him and shook him by the arms. It was somewhat akin to the flea shaking the dog but JD was too intent to realize the silliness of it. "Where's Buck?"

"JD, calm down," Nathan said quietly, taking the younger man's shoulders in his hands and meeting his wild gaze. "Buck's in ICU - JD! Wait!"

There was no stopping the boy. He tore from Nathan's grasp and rushed through the door, speeding down the corridor.

"Damn," Nathan muttered. He rubbed his eyes. He knew JD. The kid wouldn't stop until he saw his best friend. Chris had said he'd tell him about the poisoning. Nathan didn't think he could do it. Not look JD in the face and tell the younger man that...

 _'That I let a killer get to his best friend.'  
_  
Shaking his head, Nathan grabbed the bulging folder from the bedside table. This was the folder Buck had been so insistent Nathan give to Vin and not show Chris. Nathan had a bad feeling about this, but he'd do it because he'd promised. Because he owed Buck.

 _'At least JD's here. Buck can tell him whatever he's so sure he has to. Maybe Buck'll relax a little bit. And Chris too. Maybe he'll get some sleep.'_ Nathan knew there wasn't much chance of that, not when Buck's condition was so grave. Maybe if Vin showed up - where the hell was he, anyway?

Nathan hoped the quiet sharpshooter got here soon.

Chris needed him.

And Buck needed him too.

 **~+~+~+~  
**  
Chris Larabee was a man of action, a man of strength. He _needed_ to move. He hated sitting still. He hated waiting.

Oh, God, he hated waiting.

Waiting like this, when there was nothing he could do. No suspect to threaten, no one to intimidate. Nothing he could accomplish by icy whisper or raised voice that would make any difference.

But he couldn't leave Buck's side. Couldn't even close his eyes, afraid to look away from his friend.

Hospital personnel bustled in and out of the ICU cubicle. Buck's doctor had been in twice already in the little over an hour since they'd moved him. He didn't say anything to Chris.

He didn't have to. Chris knew Buck's condition was deteriorating, fast.

He straightened as Buck's eyelashes flickered and then those deep blue eyes opened. Colorless lips forced into a half-smile. "You look like shit, Pard." The voice so faint it could hardly be called a whisper.

"You've looked better, yourself," Chris countered, gently squeezing the lax hand in his own.

"Yeah...prob'ly so," Buck admitted. His eyes flickered around the room. "JD?"

"He's not here yet," Chris had to admit. Disappointment and sadness quickly flickered in Buck's eyes.

Chris raged inwardly at the look on his friend's face. _'Where the hell_ _ **is**_ _JD? Where are all of them?'_

While Buck was being settled in ICU, Chris and Nathan had gotten busy on their phones. They managed to learn Josiah was on a plane due into DIA a little after five. So _he_ was accounted for. But Ezra, Vin and JD were all back in Denver. None of them were answering their cell or home phones. A call to AD Travis revealed none of them had checked in at the office. Travis had also reluctantly told Chris that Assistant AD Montgomery was demanding an early morning meeting with Ezra over some information Bobby Fewell had given him.

" _What_ information?" Chris demanded suspiciously. "Judge, if anyone blew that bust, it was Bobby, not Ezra."

 _"Don't worry about it, Chris,"_ Travis ordered. _"I'll meet with young Mr. Fewell myself. I don't even see there's any reason to tell Mr. Standish about this right now."_

Chris was pissed. "I don't like people complaining about _my_ men unless they go through me first. *I* was Agent in Charge in Hugo-"

 _"Chris! I'll handle it. You just worry about Buck right now. I'll deal with this matter."_ The older man hesitated. _"But I do need your teams' reports tomorrow before noon, Chris. That's procedure and I can't waive it."  
_  
Chris took a deep breath. God, his head hurt. "OK, Judge. I'll make sure they get them in."

Now Chris met Buck's sunken eyes. "He'll be here soon," he said firmly. "So will the others. You just get some rest."

There was a sound of throat-clearing behind him and Chris looked around to see Dr. Culver. "Chris, can I talk to you out in the hallway?" the doctor asked, his face carefully neutral.

"Don'...bother, Doc. Know what you want..wanna say." Buck stopped, struggling hard to breathe. "Time's up...right?"

The doctor nodded. "I'm sorry, Buck," he said gently. "We need to put you on the respirator now. You're getting too weak to wait any longer. I'd like to start the sedative IV immediately."

"Sedative?" Chris asked sharply. He was no medical expert but even he knew sedating Buck would further hamper his breathing.

"To get the tube down his throat. We can't do that when he's conscious," the doctor explained gently. "And we'll need to keep him mildly sedated after it's in...keep him from fighting it." He smiled sympathetically. "Buck learned the last time how hard that is."

Buck nodded weakly. He looked up at the doctor. "Hey, doc...give us a minute...okay?"

Culver hesitated, then nodded. "Just a minute. I'll send the nurse in to start the sedative."

Buck met Chris' eyes as the doctor left. "Now I think...I know what the...guy on death row feels just before they...they give him the needle..."

"Don't!" Chris commanded. He could hear the fear in his own voice and forced himself to calm down. "You're just going to take a little nap," he said, more gently. "And we'll all be right here."

Buck's cold fingers gripped Chris' tightly, as if he was pouring every bit of his scant remaining strength into the grip. "Need you to...promise me...somethin'."

Chris had to swallow twice. "No deathbed promises here cause this ain't your deathbed," he said gruffly. "You're going to be fine, Buck. You have to be."

"Humor me, then? I need you to..."

"What?" Chris prompted.

"Can't explain." Buck looked frustrated. He swallowed as the nurse came in with a tray. "Just...don't want you...you've got people who care about you, Chris...people who depend-"

"Buck?"

JD stood in the doorway, eyes wide and terrified.

Ezra sighed, moving shoulders tight with tension. In his exhausted state, the forty-mile drive to Chris' ranch - much of it through Denver end of workday traffic - had been grueling.

But now he was on the "last lap" so to speak. Unfortunately he was driving west, directly into the setting sun, and the glare was giving him a headache. All he needed right now was a migraine to start….

He sighed with relief as he saw the split-rail fence of Chris' neighbor that was his personal landmark for the turnoff.

 **BANG!**

The Jag shuddered violently, throwing Ezra against the door. Black smoke billowed from under the hood. The steering wheel spun under Ezra's hand as the car swerved, then spun around and around, finally slamming to a crashing halt against the fence.

 _tbc..._


	17. Chapter 17

**Part 16**

Ezra moaned, lifting his heavy head from the headrest and shaking it to try to clear it. "Damn," he groaned again as a thousand jackhammers assaulted his skull. He reached trembling fingers up to his temple and they came away warm and sticky with his own blood. Forcing open his eyelids, Ezra slammed them closed again as the brilliant late afternoon sunlight exploded in the back of his skull like a supernova. He coughed painfully, his lungs stinging from black, acrid smoke. _'Smoke,'_ he thought dreamily. Something about the smoke, something urgent, but he just couldn't grasp what it was. He was so tired...sleep beckoned seductively.

 _'Just a little nap...'_ and then he'd get out of the car, do what he needed to do. Call the auto club...oh, the authorities. Damn, who owned that fence he'd slammed into? They were...someone's neighbors...he'd been on his way somewhere...oh yes, Chris' place. Chris's neighbors. Maybe Larabee could talk them out of suing him. More likely Chris would just kill him for annoying him...

The pounding in his head increased and he winced, turning away. There was a buzzing...a buzzing with a familiar cadence...no, not buzzing, words. Someone was talking-yelling at him.

Ezra forced open heavy eyelids to catch a glimpse of a face...wildly distorted by the shattered window. The pounding was coming from above him...the man must be pounding on the roof of the vehicle.

 _'What an unusual thing for someone to do...'_

He strained to listen to the buzzing and suddenly the words made sense.

"Guy! Hey, man, the car is on fire! Unlock your damn door!"

Moving by reaction, no thought to it, Ezra fumbled with the handle until a _'snap!'_ sound told him the door had unlatched. Chill air blasted over him as the stranger jerked the door open and reached in to unbuckle his seat belt. "Come on, guy, a little help here?"

Ezra managed to open his eyes again to an image of lots of blond hair falling into blue eyes. His benefactor pushed back the hair with an impatient motion that reminded Ezra of JD. Somehow he managed to get his feet moving underneath him and with a heave, he was out of the car.

His head whirling with the movement and the shattering pain, it was several moments before he realized that the black smoke coming from under the Jaguar's hood was diminishing and there were no orange flames licking up from the engine. He tried to stop moving, to say something, only to realize that his blond rescuer was guiding him-dragging him, actually-away from his own car toward a white Mustang parked some yards away.

"No-" he protested, trying to pull away. He managed to get his balance and went on, his voice a little stronger. "I do appreciate your assistance, sir, but all I require is a cell-"

The man turned to face him full-on. Ezra stopped in mid-sentence, gripped by a sudden feeling of recognition. "Do I-I'm sorry, but you seem so familiar-"

"Probably am." The man's voice was quiet. His hand reached into his jacket pocket.

"We've met?" Ezra asked, closing his eyes against another wave of dizziness.

"Yeah. You killed my cousin."

Ezra's eyelids snapped open. He recognized the feral look on the man's face, tried to yell, to run, but it was too late. The blond had a strong grip on his upper arm. He raised his other hand; the sun glittered off something clutched in his palm. Then he stabbed downwards.

Ezra felt a sharp sting in his neck. The man let go of him and he stumbled back a few steps. "What-" he started.

Hiroshima detonated inside his skull.

Ezra was unconscious before he hit the ground.

 **7777777**

"Hey, JD," Buck said weakly. His tired eyes lit up.

Chris stood as JD took a hesitant step inside the room. The younger man glanced at him with a brief glare-as if he knew he was mad at Chris but couldn't quite remember why-and then his eyes darted around the room, taking in the monitors and equipment, the nurse administering something into the IV, and finally Buck's figure in the bed.

JD's face whitened by several shades and his eyes grew huge. "Buck?" he breathed, taking another step forward. He looked at Chris and the anger was gone, replaced by a desperate fear.

Chris opened his mouth to say something and then both of them turned around quickly as Dr. Culver came back in. He nodded at JD and then looked at Buck. "You about ready, Buck?" he asked gently.

"Ready for what?" JD blurted. He looked from the doctor to Chris to Buck, eyes wild although he was obviously trying to keep calm. "Buck? Ready for what?" His voice shook in spite of his attempts to steady it.

Buck looked pleadingly at Chris. His old friend nodded, coming forward to gently grip JD's arm. "JD, let's go talk for a minute."

JD jerked his arm free. The hostility had faded but he obviously didn't want to leave. "Buck?"

It was equally obvious that Buck-as much as it broke his heart to be unable to comfort JD-simply didn't have the strength to tell him what was wrong. "Go with Chris, kid. Please. He'll tell you."

JD looked from Buck to Chris and back again. He finally nodded and stepped out the door. Chris made to follow him, looking back over his shoulder. "We'll be right back." He was looking at the doctor but his words were directed at Buck and he knew his old friend would realize that.

 **7777777**

JD didn't want to leave Buck, but he wanted...no, he _needed_ to know what was going on, and he knew the only way he'd find out was to go along with Chris. So he gently squeezed Buck's lax hand, forcing out a cheerful, "I'll be right back, Buck." He tried to say something else, make some joke about Buck making a play for the nurse, but his throat closed up on him. Chris was standing at the door watching them with a tired, sad look on his face. Somehow that scared JD more than anything. He kept his grip on Buck's hand, afraid to let go, even for a few minutes.

"JD?" Chris said gently.

"Go on, Kid," Buck prompted. "I'm not goin'...anywhere."

JD couldn't trust his voice to speak. He gave Buck's hand one last squeeze and then let go. He walked to the door carefully, gingerly, feeling like his legs were going to collapse under him any second.

Once out in the hall, he turned around to face Chris, who had followed him. "What happened? What's wrong with him?" He could hear his voice rising, panic covering the words.

"This way." Chris tried to take his arm to lead him down the hall but JD jerked away again.

"Just tell me, damn it!"

Nurses looked up at his near-shout. A middle-aged blonde woman stuck her head out of one of the cubicles. She started to say something but Chris' glare stopped her in mid-word. She prudently withdrew back into the room.

JD noticed none of this. He stood facing his boss, hands clenched.

"Come on," Chris growled, grabbing JD's arm again and this time not allowing him to pull free. He pulled the younger man several feet down the corridor to a tiny alcove barely large enough for two vinyl-covered chairs and a small table. A thriving plant on the table overwhelmed the space. Chris gently shoved JD into one chair and then dropped into the other one, facing him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" JD exploded.

Chris opened his mouth to fire off a response, then sighed and leaned back into the chair. His shoulders slumped and for the first time since JD had met him, the older man looked almost defeated. "Damn, Kid, you're not making this any easier," he muttered.

JD froze. His eyes widened as he searched Chris' face, seeing harsh lines of fear and exhaustion and grief that hadn't been there even two days before. "I'm sorry," JD whispered, not sure why he was whispering or even what he was apologizing for. "It's just...what's wrong, Chris? He looks terrible. He didn't look like that when we left." He heard his own voice break on the next words. "He's...it's real bad, isn't it?"

Chris closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah, JD. It's bad."

 **7777777**

JD felt cold suddenly, as if he'd just been deluged with ice water. Unconsciously he crossed his arms in front of his body, hugging himself, trying to protect himself against what he knew was coming. "What is it?" His voice was barely a whisper.

Chris sighed again and as JD watched, the older man seemed to age before his eyes. Chris leaned forward, eyes on the floor. In the tiny cubicle their knees were almost touching.

Still looking down, Chris said, "Buck has pneumonia."

JD just stared at him. Pneumonia. Okay...that was bad. But surely not _this_ bad. Dr. Culver had been worried about pneumonia all along, but after all, Buck was in a hospital, and they'd been monitoring him constantly. They had to have caught it early-hell, Buck was okay when Team Seven had left for Texas and that had just been a few days ago. The doctors would pump him full of miracle antibiotics-it just meant a couple days in ICU, that was all. Buck would gripe because he hated ICU with all its restrictions, but...it was just a little setback.

But looking at Chris Larabee, who appeared to have aged ten years in just a few hours, and JD knew with a chill certainty there was more-and worse-to come.

"What else?" He forced out the words through numb lips, not really wanting to hear an answer. He tried to remember he was mad at Chris, but the anger dissipated like fog in a breeze.

JD really didn't want to know what could make Chris look so tired, so strained, so old.

So scared.

Chris took in a deep breath, let it out. He looked up finally, his gimlet-green eyes locking with JD's hazel ones. He opened his mouth, started talking. Words flowed over JD's head; Chris' voice was cold, terse, emotionless. Only his eyes were alight with anguish.

He kept talking. JD blinked. He heard the words, an imposter therapist, something in the breathing treatment-something _wrong_ in the breathing treatment. Something unknown, toxic. Something that affected Buck's lungs, damaged them, made them too vulnerable to the bacteria flooding his system.

"You're saying-" JD's voice seemed to come from somewhere far away. It was as if he were somewhere else, watching, like he'd watch a movie or a TV show. "You're saying...Buck was _poisoned?_ Is that what you're saying, Chris?"

 _'Of course that's not it,'_ he tried to reassure himself _. 'It can't be that. I misunderstood somehow. People don't get poisoned_ _ **in**_ _a hospital. Couldn't have happened. There was a guard on the door. And Nathan! Nathan was with Buck. Nathan wouldn't let anyone poison him.'_

Silence. Too long a silence. Finally, Chris said quietly, "Yeah, JD. Buck's been poisoned."

A scream of denial, of rage, started deep in JD's gut. He forced it back with a superhuman effort. Buck needed him. He had to hold it together, for Buck.

He didn't even notice the crescents of blood welling up as his nails dug into the unprotected skin of his arms.

"There's an antidote, right? He's going to be okay!" JD's voice was thin, high, strained. He knew the answer. He'd heard Chris earlier. But it couldn't be so. It couldn't be. He looked away from Chris sagging shoulders, fixed his eyes on the obscenely healthy potted plant. How could something grow that healthy in this world of recycled air and artificial light?

Chris was talking again. JD tried not to hear, tried to block out the words. In vain. They pounded into his head like blows from a hammer. Respirator. Life support. Maybe permanent damage...oh, no, God no... He closed his eyes, fighting dizziness.

"JD!" Chris' voice commanded attention.

JD blinked and opened his eyes again. Chris held his head, forcing him to look at him. "He wants to talk to you, JD. You going to be okay?"

Okay? Okay! How could anything be okay ever again? Was Chris _insane?_

JD took a deep breath, summoning up strength from somewhere inside, some deep secret reservoir. He met Chris' gaze, seeing-with a kind of vague surprise-the desperation there. A look he knew that matched his own.

He swallowed. "Yeah, Chris, I'll be okay." He forced himself to stand up on trembling knees, rubbing his hands fiercely over his face. He had to be okay. He had to pull it together. He had to. He had to be strong. For Buck.

His brother needed him.

 **7777777**

"I'm going to ache in places I didn't even remember I had tomorrow," Monica Hastings declared. "But it's been worth it!"

She flashed a sparkling smile at Vin as she unbuckled the cinch strap holding the saddle on Buck Wilmington's gentle gray mare, Paladin.

When they had reached Chris' ranch and met the horses, Vin had been struck by the longing in Monica's eyes and impulsively decided they could squeeze in a short ride before it got too dark. Vin had picked Pal for Monica to ride. For a couple of reasons, actually. By her own admission it had been years since she'd ridden. Of all the horses stabled at Chris' ranch, Paladin was the one most likely to tolerate a new rider. Plus Vin figured the mare was probably missing her master and might appreciate some individual attention. Which she did. She also relished the peppermint candies Monica conjured up from somewhere.

In the stall across the way, Chaucer, Ezra's spirited-and spoiled-gelding, snorted and kicked his stall door jealously.

"Now there, Chaucer, is that the way a gentleman behaves?" Vin rebuked. He burst into laughter at the astonished expression on Monica's face. "That's Ezra's horse," he said. "He's taught 'im all sorts of tricks. Tells him to be a _'gentleman'_ and Chaucer starts doin' some flashy high-steppin'."

Monica smiled and brought another peppermint into view. "Can he have it?" she asked, nodding toward Chaucer. The horse whinnied and craned his neck toward the treat.

"Sure," Vin smiled as the chestnut gelding gently lipped the candy from Monica's outstretched hand and then allowed her to rub his forehead. "Think you've made a friend."

"Well, it's the least I can do. I _did_ almost get his owner killed."

Vin touched her face gently. "That wasn't your fault."

She looked up at him with huge blue eyes. For a moment Vin felt himself falling into their depths. Slowly, gently, he leaned down and covered her lips with his own.

A noisy explosion of wet air blew between them, startling both of them, sending both reeling backwards. "Damn it, Chaucer!" Vin exploded, wiping horse-slobber from his neck. He shot an embarrassed grin at Monica. "Think we've got a chaperone," he commented.

Monica was giggling so hard she had to lean against the wall. "More like seven chaperones!"

Vin looked around and she was right: all seven of the horses had their heads hanging over the half-doors of their stalls with what passed for equine interested looks on their faces. Vin looked back at Chaucer. "Damn mule."

Chaucer smirked. Vin shook his head. "You're too much like your daddy," he told the horse.

Monica, breathless from laughing, wiped tears from her eyes. "Well...Chaucer's timing for his little interruption could have been better, but I probably do need to get going." She looked at her watch and made a face. "I'm due at my uncle's for dinner in an hour. I'd better call and let him know I'll be late."

For the first time a prickle of uneasiness struck Vin as he glanced at his own watch and then at the deepening dusk outside. _'Kind of funny Chris ain't made it home yet.'_ "I need to go in the house a minute," he said abruptly.

She heard the change of his tone and frowned. "Something wrong?"

"Probably not. Just need to check something." Vin made sure the stable was secure before leading her to the back door of the house.

"Well, I could use a bathroom," she admitted.

Vin unlocked the door with his spare key. Reaching in, he flicked on the lights in the little service porch area Chris referred to as the "mudroom." He pointed to the door leading to the extra bedroom Ezra usually slept in when staying at the ranch. "There's one through that bedroom. I'm just going to use the phone in the kitchen."

He quickly punched in Chris' cell phone number, disconnecting when the voice mail engaged. The number of Buck's hospital room was posted on the refrigerator, secured by a boot-shaped magnet. Feeling uneasy, Vin dialed it. After three rings, a crisp voice answered, _"Nurses' Station, Four West."  
_  
Vin frowned. _'That's supposed to ring directly into Buck's room...'_ "Uh...I'm trying to reach Buck Wilmington-"

"One moment," the voice said briskly. He heard a click, then ringing. This time the phone was answered promptly _. "Intensive Care."_

Vin felt the blood drain out of his face. _'Oh, shit.'_ He cleared his throat. "I'm trying to reach Chris Larabee. He'd be visiting a patient named Buck Wilmington..."

 _"May I ask who's calling?"_

"Vin Tanner."

 _"One moment."_

There was another click as he was put on hold. Vin turned as Monica came into the kitchen, looking concerned. "Vin...?"

He waved her to silence as the phone clicked again.

 _"Where are you?"_ Nathan demanded.

"Nathan?" Vin asked, confused. "Where's Chris?"

 _"He's with JD. How fast can you get here?"_

"JD?" Vin repeated, confused. He could tell by the tone of Nathan's voice something was terribly wrong. "Nathan, what's happened? Is JD hurt?"

 _"No, not JD,"_ Nathan answered with a catch in his voice. _"It's Buck."_

Vin gripped the phone tightly. "What's wrong?"

There was a pause, then Nathan's choked out, _"God, Vin. Buck just went into cardiac arrest."_

 _tbc..._


	18. Chapter 18

**Part 17**

JD stared through the glass window into Buck's ICU room, watching as the medical staff fought a desperate battle for his best friend's life.

The tiny cubicle was full of people. Chris had dragged him out to make room for them as the alarms on the monitors shrieked and wailed in turbulent rhythms.

It was like he was watching from outside his own body. He was totally numb as two nurses rolled Buck over and crammed a board behind his back. Another nurse fitted a mask over his face and then attached something that looked like a large rubber balloon to it, squeezing it to force air into Buck's lungs. Two more people ran in, propelling a cart laden with heavy machinery. The dark-haired Resident who had been the first to respond to the alarm grabbed the paddles from the cart and yelled out something, but JD couldn't make out the words over the terrified thumping of his own heart. The doctor slammed the paddles into position and the electrical current arced through Buck's helpless body.

"Damn it, Buck, come on, come on!" Chris kept repeating the words like a mantra. JD tore his eyes away from the horrific sight in front of him to look at Chris. The older man's face was set in fierce lines but his eyes were alive with agony. His hands were clenched so tightly the bones showed white through the skin.

The doctor yelled, "Clear!" and everyone jumped back from Buck again. JD felt Chris physically flinch at the sickening thud as the electrical charge raced though Buck's body. JD couldn't react. He stood as stiff and unyielding as if turned to stone.

There was a rush of displaced air as Dr. Culver raced into the room. "Get the airway ready," he snapped. "Epinephrine!"

"Clear!" the other doctor yelled again.

The words made no sense to JD. None whatsoever. _'What's going on?'_ his dazed mind wondered. _'How did this happen?'_

"Damn it, Buck!" Chris raged again.

Everything started spinning, around and around, faster. JD closed his eyes and tried desperately to make sense out of it. He had to pull himself together, he needed be strong. Be strong for Buck. God, how did this happen? How could this have happened so fast?

His mind flew back to just ten minutes before...

 _JD and Chris reached the open door of Buck's ICU room together. JD halted briefly. "Chris, give us a minute alone." It wasn't really a request, but still, JD could see Chris hesitate. He knew-even though his head was spinning and his gut was churning with fear; even though he didn't know_ _ **how**_ _he knew-that Chris didn't want to be too far away from Buck._

 _He knew the feeling._

 _He felt the same way._

 _But Chris and his feelings didn't matter. Without looking back, JD slipped into the room and over to the side of the bed._

 _The nurse was still there but she straightened up and moved to the door. "Just a few minutes," she cautioned in a hushed voice. JD nodded as if he understood her words but they washed over him as he got a good look at Buck._

 _Buck's face had a grayish cast to it. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull and dark hair was damp with sweat. Even with the oxygen it was obvious he was struggling hard to draw every breath. The tight struggling of his breathing took JD back four years and two thousand miles, to another ICU room eerily like this one. Where he'd sat and prayed desperately for a miracle, even as he knew the end of his mother's too-short life had arrived. His courage failed and for a few seconds he wanted nothing more than to run away._

 _But he hadn't run away then, and he wouldn't run away now. He couldn't. His best friend-his brother in all but blood-needed him._

 _Buck's tired eyes faintly brightened when he saw JD. "Hey, JD." His hand lifted off the bed._

 _JD stepped forward and took it, careful not to disturb any of the tubes or wires. "Hey, yourself." He forced the words to sound cheerful. "Can't I even turn my back on you for a couple days?" he chided gently._

 _"You know me...I'm high-maintenance," Buck joked. His fingers tightened ever so faintly on JD's and his expression changed. "Did Chris...tell you?"_

 _JD's back stiffened almost unconsciously at the mention of Chris' name. "Yeah. He told me."_

 _Buck nodded, his eyes fluttering. He forced them open with an obvious effort. "Need to tell you...some things...Kid."_

 _Cold chills raced down JD's spine, lending a snap to his tone. "No, you don't," he contradicted. "You don't have to tell me anything now, Buck. Later. When you're stronger-"_

"There may not be a _**later**_ _for me, JD." Buck's voice was barely a whisper._

 _"Don't say that!" Fear clutched at JD's heart. "You're going to be fine, Buck," he said, more quietly. "A couple days on the ventilator, give your body a rest..." He forced his voice to be steady. He hated the thought of Buck being on a ventilator. He knew Buck hated it, too. Not being able to communicate. The sedation that made him seem less like a real person and more like a lifeless husk-_

 _JD felt cold tears trickle down his cheek and quickly wiped them away with his free hand, but apparently not before Buck saw them. "Hell, JD, I'm sorry," he whispered._

 _JD shook his head, throat too tight for words._

 _"I gotta...ask you something...did my box...you know, the one-did it...is it-"_

 _JD frowned, then realized what Buck was talking about. "It's okay, Buck. They found it in the...they found it. It's back at the ranch. You want me to bring it to you?"_

 _Buck shook his head. "No...you keep it. There's a letter in there...to you. One to Chris, too..."_

 _JD couldn't help another flinch at Chris' name. He thought Buck was too sick to notice._

 _He should have known better._

 _JD lifted his head to find himself being impaled by Buck's eyes. Eyes so impossibly dark blue they should have been black but somehow never were. "You're still mad at Chris." It wasn't a question._

 _JD couldn't deny it. He just nodded. Buck sighed and sank back against the pillows. "JD-"_

 _"Don't, Buck." JD was sorry for his abrupt tone but he rushed on. "Don't tell me not to be pissed at him. Chris Larabee has no right-"_

 _"JD. Shut up."_

 _Buck's voice had a quiet, intent tone JD had rarely heard. He shut up and stared at his friend._

 _"What you...heard that day-what you _ **thought**_ _you heard..." Buck was obviously having a hard time speaking. He closed his eyes and when he opened them the strain was visible. JD tried to quiet him but Buck kept talking. "Wasn't...wasn't what you thought. Doesn't have nothing to do with you, Kid. Just some...old history." His eyes drifted shut, then he opened them again with an effort. "Lots of...history there. Stuff that...he...we, can't ever get past. But it's_ _ **our**_ _stuff, JD." His fingers tightened on JD's. "Promise me...promise me you'll...make up with him."__

 _JD shook his head, blinking against the smarting tears. "I can't-"_

"You _**have**_ _to!" Buck's voice raised and he struggled to sit up. JD quickly put a hand on his chest to hold him down. "I don't want to...leave and-"_

 _The blood drained from JD's face. "You aren't going to die!" His voice trembled. "Please Buck. Please."_

 _"Hell, Kid, I don't want to."_

 _JD fought back tears. "That's what my mom said." He bit his lip. He hadn't meant to say that out loud._

 _Buck's eyes met his. His voice had dropped to barely a whisper. "She didn't want to, either, JD. Sometimes...you know." His fingers tightened again on JD's. "You won't be alone. You...the guys...we're all family."_

 _JD couldn't speak._

 _Buck's eyelashes fluttered against almost translucent skin. "Don't...forget the...letter. If I do- Just in case...Tell you..."_

 _"Tell me what? Buck? Buck!"_

 _Buck's eyes closed. The hand that had been so tightly gripping JD's relaxed suddenly. As JD bounded to his feet in panic, the shriek of an alarm tore through the room. Lights on the monitor above Buck's head-the one that had been showing his heartbeat-flashed red as the even tracing changed to an erratic jerking._

 _Terror tore through JD's body and soul. Hands were on his shoulders, pulling him away. He struggled. He had to get back to Buck!_

 _"JD! Damn it! Let them do their jobs, JD!" Chris' voice was harsh in his ears. Nathan was there too, suddenly, helping pull him from the room. Pulling him away from his best friend..._

 _Now JD stood frozen, Chris on one side of him, Nathan on the other, as they watched the frenzied efforts to bring Buck back to life. Chris swore continuously, pleadingly, his eyes never leaving the scene._

 _JD jumped as he heard the sickening thump of the defibrillator again. The doctor said something but JD couldn't hear it over the whine of that alarm in his ears..._

 _Then slowly, he realized the whine was gone but a roaring replaced it. He swayed. The darkness crept closer. From a long way away he heard Nathan's voice, shaky with relief. "It's okay...he's back. They got him back."_

 _And then the blackness leapt up and swallowed JD_.

 **7777777**

"Easy, JD."

The world slowly swam back into focus. JD blinked, trying to figure out why everything in front of him was denim blue. Then he realized his head was between his knees and the pressure he felt on his neck was a hand keeping it there.

"Josiah?" he asked weakly.

"Right here, son. Are you feeling better?"

JD nodded, although he couldn't quite remember why he might be feeling badly to begin with. He struggled to raise his head and the pressure disappeared from his neck. Blinking painfully in the harsh overhead lights, he looked around, recognizing the waiting area outside of ICU. Josiah hovered in front of him. The profiler's face was pale in the fluorescent light. There was something about the look in his eyes-

Memory came spilling back.

"Buck!" JD yelled, trying to jump to his feet.

Josiah caught him, forcing him back down. "Easy, son. Buck's holding his own. They got his heart re-started. He's on the ventilator now."

"Josiah?" JD was still confused. "How long have you been here?"

"About twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes?" JD repeated. Panic churned his stomach. "Buck!"

"It's okay, son. Chris is with Buck. "

"And _you_ need to take it easy for a little while. You won't do Buck any good if you end up in the hospital too," Nathan said firmly, coming into the waiting room with a cardboard divider holding several white Styrofoam cups. He sat it down on the table and extracted one of the cups, handing it to JD. "Here. Drink this."

"This" was hot chocolate, obviously from a machine and with extra sugar added. JD sipped at it and made a face but one look at Nathan convinced him not to argue.

JD drained the cup of chocolate and Nathan exchanged it for a cup of water and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane.

"I'm not hungry," JD protested, pushing the sandwich aside and trying to get up again. "I need to be with Buck."

"You can't right now, JD," Nathan said patiently, pushing the sandwich back into his hands. "They're only allowing one visitor at a time right now and Chris is in there. You need to eat. When's the last time you ate or got some sleep?"

JD didn't answer because truth was, he didn't remember. It didn't matter anyway. "I need to go to Buck," he repeated.

"JD," Nathan started, but Josiah waved him off.

"JD, eat the sandwich and then you can see Buck for a few minutes. I would imagine Chris needs a break."

JD studied the older man's face through eyes fuzzy with fatigue, then gave a brief nod and unwrapped the sandwich.

"He needs to get some sleep," Nathan commented. "JD. why don't you let Josiah take you home for a few hours, okay? I'll stay here and keep an eye on Chris and Buck."

Bitterness rose up in JD's throat, almost choking him. "I don't _have_ a home anymore, remember?"

Nathan looked abashed. "I'm sorry, JD. I meant Chris' place-"

"I know what you meant." JD took another bite of the sandwich. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He muttered, "The ranch is _not_ my home." Then, softer still, barely a whisper, more to himself than to Josiah and Nathan, he said, "If Buck dies I won't ever have a home again."

He hoped-prayed-one of the other two would assure him Buck wasn't going to die. Vin would have. Ezra would have. Hell, even Chris would have. But not Nathan, with his medical background, or Josiah, with his belief in an all-knowing God.

"Buck is a fighter, son," Josiah said finally. "He'll fight as hard as he can. And we'll all be here helping him fight."

JD put the sandwich back down. His stomach was churning with bile and another bite would make him sick. He leaned back in the uncomfortable seat, staring at the ceiling through a watery haze of tears.

"You need some sleep, JD," Nathan repeated.

JD just shook his head.

Nathan sighed. " _You_ try to reason with him," he told Josiah, standing. "I'm going to go check on Chris and try to talk to Buck's doctor again." He walked out of the room.

"Don't," JD warned Josiah in a choked voice. He reached up a hand to wipe the tears away.

Josiah didn't try to talk him into leaving. Instead, he asked a question, his voice quiet, but the question made JD forget his tears and lift his head to stare at the older man.

"Do you want to talk about the problem you're having with Chris?"

Nathan stopped at the window of Buck's room and simply stood there for several minutes, studying the scene within.

He steeled himself for the shock of seeing Buck hooked up to the respirator. The cold machinery looked so alien. His friend looked so lifeless, like a wax mannequin. Even more monitors and equipment had been moved into the room, crowding the tiny space, dwarfing the bed and the man in it as well as the man by his side. Two men, normally larger than life, now looked so very small and vulnerable.

Nathan watched the cardiac monitor for a minute, reassured by the steady, even pulse. Then his attention shifted to Chris. The ATF leader sat on the far side of the bed, facing the window, but he didn't see Nathan. His eyes were fixed on Buck's face, quiet and distorted by the respirator. Nathan took in the pallor of Chris' face, the gray pouches under his eyes, the exhausted slump of his shoulders. The medic swore under his breath and started for the door. He'd drag Chris out of there and force him to at least eat something...

"Agent Jackson?"

Nathan looked toward the desk. One of the nurses—he recognized her from Buck and Ezra's previous stays in ICU-held out the phone. "Call for you. From Agent Tanner."

Nathan tossed a quick glance in Chris' direction-Larabee hadn't moved-and stepped to the desk, taking the phone and nodding at the nurse.

"Vin? Where are you? I thought you'd be here by now."

Vin's voice was harsh and distorted by static, distant. _"Nathan. Has anyone talked to Ezra?"_

Nathan frowned. "No." He'd actually been a little worried about the Southerner; Josiah had insisted he'd personally seen Ezra onto a flight out of Dallas and he should have arrived back hours ago, but in the worry over Buck's deteriorating condition-to say nothing of Chris and JD-he'd dismissed it from his mind. Ezra had probably headed to his home for a change of clothes or something. The man hated to appear in public looking disheveled. "Why?"

He sensed Vin's concern even over the bad connection. _"Well—we-I found his car. On the highway, the turn going to Chris'. Looks like he ran off the road or misjudged the turn or something...smashed into that stone and split rail fence around Nettie's place."_

"What?" Nathan exclaimed. The nurse looked up from her charting, frowning. Nathan turned away from her and lowered his voice. "How bad?"

 _"Car's banged up some but looks to be drivable."_ Vin hesitated. _"But the driver's side window is shattered all to hell. And-"_ he cleared his throat, _"There's some blood on the shards. Not a lot but I bet Ezra must have banged his head."  
_  
"Well, where is he?"

 _"That's just it, Nathan-there's no sign of him. I called the sheriff and no one reported the wreck. The engine's cold so it must have happened more'n an hour ago. You're at the closest hospital and I called the ER there, nobody answering Ezra's description has been treated there tonight. He's not answering his cell phone or the phone at the condo."  
_  
"If he wasn't too bad hurt and tried to walk for help-"

 _"He'd walk to Chris',"_ Vin interrupted. _"Nettie's gone this week and Casey's down in Boulder at school, so if his cell isn't workin',Chris's place'd be the closest phone. And I just came from there, Nate. I'd've seen him on the road. It's like he just disappeared!"_

 _tbc..._


	19. Chapter 19

**Part 18**

JD stared down at the tops of his running shoes, loath to meet Josiah's knowing eyes. Silence stretched between them.

"I figure it must have something to do with Buck," the big man said calmly.

That surprised JD. His head jerked up before he could stop it. "How'd you know that?" he blurted.

"You're not an angry person, JD," Josiah said gently. "But you're full of anger right now."

"Don't I have the right to be mad?" JD flared.

"You always have the right to your feelings, JD," Josiah said patiently. "You've lost your home, most of your belongings." He was quiet for a moment. "You're afraid you're going to lose your best friend."

JD bowed his head, staring at the floor.

"But you don't hold grudges. Not unless someone you love has been hurt, or is threatened. Chris _is_ your friend. He's your family, son, we all are. But you've been angry with him since before we left for Hugo. I understand your feelings. I think everyone does. You're angry and you're scared and you have to blame someone. You're blaming Chris."

JD shook his head, still staring at the floor. "I don't blame Chris for Buck getting hurt," he said softly. "He didn't plant that bomb."

"No. He didn't. But you're still pissed off at him, aren't you?"

Startled, JD looked up to meet Josiah's kind eyes. He hesitated, then it came tumbling out. How he and Vin had walked into Buck's hospital room the evening before Team Seven had departed for Oklahoma and found Chris lambasting a helpless Buck. "Buck just looked like he'd been kicked, Josiah. And Chris just kept on-" Thinking about it now, he got mad all over again. "Chris was out of line and-"

"JD-do you know _why_ Chris was upset with Buck?"

That set JD back a bit. After a minute he shrugged. "Chris found out-I guess from that Captain Natoli, you remember, the one that came to the office that day?-that Buck had been doing research and trying to find out more information on Bolo Orlowski."

Josiah just looked puzzled.

JD belatedly remembered Josiah had been in Mexico when Buck had been injured. He explained, "When he was on the respirator-" his voice broke,"-the first time, I mean...before I got back from Florida...he was trying to tell Chris something. They didn't have him sedated then-I guess 'cause of the head injury-and he was real restless, kept trying to say something, tried to pull out the tube. Ez came up with the idea of having him point to letters. He spelled out B-O-L-O. Vin figured that was Bolo Orlowski." He started to explain who Bolo was but Josiah held up a hand to stop him.

"I've heard of Bolo Orlowski. So I gather you all assumed Buck was saying that Bolo Orlowski had set the bomb?" Josiah frowned. "How would he know? Far as I can remember, they've never been able to come up with a good description of the man."

JD shook his head. "I'm not real sure. I know Buck was on the Denver Bomb Squad for a while. After Chris left the force, I think. He never talks about it much. But supposedly Bolo has a 'signature', something about the way he twists the wires to the fuse. Vin figures Buck saw that just before the bomb detonated. But the deal is, after...when Buck was...better, he denied-well, not that he'd said it 'cause there were too many witnesses, but said he didn't _remember_ and that he had no idea what he meant."

Josiah nodded very slowly. "And then, thanks to Captain Natoli, Chris found out that was a lie. And he lost his temper."

 _"Don't_ try to say Buck deserved it! Damn it! I knew you'd be on Chris' side. Everyone is always-"

"Calm down, JD." Josiah's voice was quiet but firm. JD shut up. The big man went on, "Did you talk to Chris about this?"

JD shook his head. "I don't want to talk to Chris Larabee about anything, ever."

Josiah let that go. "Then did you talk to Buck?"

Unable to meet Josiah's gaze, JD stared at the floor again, memorizing the pattern of the linoleum. He nodded.

"What did Buck say about it?" When JD just continued to stare at the floor and refused to answer, Josiah prodded, "JD?"

JD sighed. "He said...he said that there was a lot of stuff I didn't know. Stuff 'tween him and Chris. And then he told me to mind my own business." He looked up to see Josiah shaking his head, a tolerant smile on his face.

"Son, I don't think Buck would put it that way-not to you-even if that _was_ what he was thinking."

JD felt his face grow hot. "OK, actually he said to stay out of the middle of it. Then, today...just before..." his voice trailed off. He heaved a large sigh. "He told me he didn't want me fighting with Chris; wanted me to make up with him."

"But you can't do that."

"No!" JD exploded. "Cause it's more than just what I heard that day. It's the way Chris always acts to Buck. Buck's my best friend-he stuck with Chris all those years after his family was killed-and Chris treats him like...like...hell, I think Chris hates him!" JD sat back, his eyes widening in surprise at his own words. Then he nodded, as if something was suddenly clear to him. "Chris hates him," he repeated, all the fire of his youth and loyalty in his voice and eyes.

"You're wrong."

JD stared at Josiah, seeing the quiet assurance.

"No one's going to deny Chris Larabee can be one mean SOB, son. And yes, Buck is often on the receiving end of his temper- more than anyone else. But Chris doesn't hate Buck. As Buck told you, they have a lot between them. History. More than maybe we'll ever know. But I do know...I'm willing to stake my life on one thing: Chris cares about Buck. No matter what has ever happened between them, their friendship remains intact."

"How do you know that? 'Cause of the way Chris is acting _now?"_ JD almost sneered. He didn't even know why he was mad at Josiah, didn't know why he was saying the words he could hear spilling out of his mouth. "That's guilt."

Josiah sighed. "No, JD. Not because of Chris. Because of _Buck."_

"Josiah!" Nathan entered the waiting room, Chris following him, his face tight and tired.

JD felt a sick churning in his stomach. He stood up, eyes on Chris. Surprisingly, the leader's eyes met his. "Buck's the same," he said reassuringly.

"Then what's wrong?" Josiah asked the question of Nathan.

"Just got a call from Vin." Nathan wiped a hand across his forehead. "We have _another_ problem."

 **7777777**

Vin walked slowly along the side of the road, shining a powerful flashlight around him, looking for something-anything-that might indicate where Ezra had gone. He'd found Ezra's cell phone under the passenger seat in the wrecked Jag. It was turned off. Vin turned it on-as he'd expected, there were several messages but as he didn't know Ezra's security code he couldn't access them. JD probably could, but the kid wasn't around.

He swung the light around; he was more than a hundred yards past the crash site now and a thick stand of trees encroached on the road. Another few hundred yards in this direction and the road dead-ended. Vin's flashlight made little impression in the dense undergrowth. _'Ez could be lyin, hurt, few yards back in there and I wouldn't see him.'_ The thought had plagued him several times in the last few minutes. He crossed the road. Here guardrails stood sentinel. A few feet beyond the ground dropped steeply away. Some places the drop was over a hundred feet. Vin shuddered, a mental image of Ezra lying down there, alone and badly hurt, flashing through his mind.

He looked back toward his Jeep. With the aid of another flashlight, and the Denver phone directory he always kept stuffed under the seat, Monica Hastings was calling every hospital and minor emergency clinic in the area on her cell phone. Vin had called the police and the highway patrol before calling Nathan. Even as he looked down the road, he saw the red and blue flashing lights coming closer, reflecting off the guardrail as a police cruiser pulled up behind his Jeep. He started to jog toward them. Something rolled under his foot with a clatter. It was too smooth to be a rock. Vin pointed the flashlight down, moving it around.

The light reflected off a hypodermic syringe lying by the side of the road. As Vin bent to pick it up, he noticed fresh depressions in the damp shoulder of the road. Tire impressions. Recent and clear. This road didn't get much travel, especially past the last turnoff which led to Chris', but still, Vin didn't think the tracks could be more than a few hours old.

"You Agent Tanner? What'd you find?"

Two uniformed officers approached him, carrying powerful flashlights.

"Get a Forensics team up here," Vin snapped. He looked up as another vehicle approached, recognizing it as Nathan's. He sighed in relief.

 _'Just hang on, Ez. Wherever you are. We'll find you.'  
_

 **7777777**

He hurt.

Ezra tried to open his eyes. The lids seemed gummed together. There was a roaring in his ears and the world was moving around him, making him sick.

He was face down and there was something hot and stifling over his head. He tried to move his arms, to order his hands to pull it away, but his hands were clasped together behind his back. Pain tore along his shoulder, sending a shrieking message to his brain. Ezra gasped, trying to wrench away from the agony his own body had become.

It was too much. He slid back into the blackness.

 **7777777**

When he woke again the world was no longer moving. His mouth was dry and he could taste blood. But still his head was a little clearer-clear enough that he could register the separate pains: the throbbing in his skull; the dull ache of his ribs; and the shrieking and so-familiar burning in his shoulder.

 _'Dislocated again. Nathan will be so displeased...'_

He was aware of a door opening nearby-a car door, he thought-then the smothering cover was removed from his head. Fresh air rushed in, cooling his sweaty face. Ezra gulped at the fresh air greedily.

"End of the line," a male voice stated from somewhere above him.

Ezra was still on his stomach. He tried to twist his head around to see who was speaking but the movement reawakened the agony in his dislocated shoulder. Ezra choked back a scream, his head dropping, face rubbing against the leather upholstery. Over the roaring in his ears, he could hear the unknown man laughing.

"You can go ahead and scream. No one around here to hear you. Except me. And I can't _wait_ to hear you scream."

Something grabbed his foot, started pulling. Ezra kicked out, only then realizing his feet were bound together as well. Gathering his feeble energy, he lashed out with both feet, punching into his abductor. A "whoof!" of exploded air from his captor's lungs told him he'd hit too high to do crippling damage, but he was sure he'd inflicted some pain.

"Bastard!" The man's voice gasped. "See how you like this-!"

Ezra felt fire along his thigh as a knife tore through his slacks and bit deep into his flesh. Trying to roll away from the torture, he jarred his shoulder.

The world exploded in a white-hot flash of agony.

Then darkness again.

 **7777777**

By eleven there were so many cars, trucks, and rescue vehicles parked alongside the highway the road was barely passable. It was a foggy night; red and blue lights flashed eerily against the whitish mist. Men, women, even a few dogs from the Rocky Mountain SAR team ranged deep into the fields and woods; down the steep cliffs. Bobbing flashlights and the sounds of their yelling voices marked their search.

Investigators from the Crime Scene Units of five law enforcement agencies carefully scoured the wrecked Jag, took pictures of the skid marks, made casts of the impressions in the mud. More and more men arrived as word spread. A fellow officer was missing. Maybe injured. Possibly abducted. Inter-agency rivalries disappeared at times like this. Even off duty personnel showed up to assist in the search.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Vin's Jeep, Monica Hastings shivered so hard her teeth rattled. She was wearing Vin's jacket and wrapped in a blanket someone had produced from somewhere, but she was still cold.

A figure appeared out of the mist, jogging towards her. She stiffened, then relaxed as she recognized Vin. He came around to her door.

"Anything?" she asked as he opened it. She knew the answer but she felt she had to ask.

He shook his head. He looked tired, strained in the faint light. "One of the Denver PD guys is going to take you home."

She nodded, sliding out of the seat. "I'll give you your jacket." He was wearing a thin blue windbreaker with the letters ATF in gold on the back.

He took her arm, guiding her down the road past all the vehicles steaming into the frosty night. Her feet were numb from sitting so long in the cold Jeep and she leaned against him for support. He moved his hand, sliding his arm around her waist. "Damn, I'm sorry, Monica," he muttered contritely. "Should have got someone to take you home hours ago."

She stopped, forcing him to stop as well, and looked up into his face intently. "Your mind is on finding your friend. That's where it should be. Besides...I wanted to stay. I know I'm just in the way, but...I want to be here for you."

His eyes locked with hers for a long second. Suddenly he bent his head down and kissed her on the lips. She slipped both arms around his narrow waist and held on tightly.

They broke apart seconds later as a petite Asian female wearing the uniform of the Denver PD approached. "Agent Tanner?" she inquired in a low, musical voice. "Officer Chang, 53rd Precinct. My sergeant told me a civilian needed an escort?"

Their eyes met again. He managed a smile. "A special civilian, Officer. Take good care of her, you hear?"

"Of course, Agent."

Monica tugged on Vin's sleeve. "You'll call me when you find him?"

Surprisingly, he smoothed back her hair with both hands and kissed her again, once on the forehead, then on the lips. "Thanks for saying _'when',"_ he whispered. "You'll be okay?"

She hugged him hard, then released him. "I'll be fine, Vin. You just go find your friend."

 **7777777**

Officer Chang insisted on accompanying her to the door of her condo. She reminded Monica to lock her door and then stood on the brick stoop until Monica was safely inside and had slapped the dead bolt into place.

As soon as the lights of the patrol car had disappeared up the road, Monica hurried into her living room. Snatching up the phone, she punched in her cousin's number with shaking fingers. "Come on, Nina, be there," she muttered as the phone rang two, three times.

On the fifth ring, just as she was about to give up, Nina answered. She sounded sleepy and cross. _"This better not be a crank call."_

"Nina, it's me."

 _"Monica?"_ She heard a yawn, then a rustle of covers. _"Good God, it's past midnight. I have a deposition at seven a.m."_ She giggled. _"You just getting home? Awfully late for a week night."_ Monica could hear the gloating tone in her cousin's voice. _"So how goes it with Agent Tanner?"_

"Forget that. We've got a problem. Do you know where David is?"

 _"David?"_ Nina's voice sounded puzzled. _"No. At home, I guess. Or his apartment. I haven't talked to him since day before yesterday. Why?"  
_  
Monica took a deep breath. "Ezra Standish is missing. Vin and I found his car tonight, up on the road leading to Chris Larabee's ranch." She took a another breath. "They're still looking up there for him but they're thinking he was kidnapped. Or maybe even murdered."

There was a long silence.

 _"Damn him!"_ Nina Wyerly swore.

 **7777777**

Nina couldn't get back to sleep that night. She curled up on her king size canopied bed, watching the blue digital numbers of her alarm clock tick away the minutes, then the hours. Her mind was whirling.

 _'David, damn you, I knew you'd screw this up.'_

Her brother was the wild card in her carefully plotted plan. The one element she couldn't predict. He was so filled with rage since Steven had died...

Her brother.

Odd she felt no sibling love for him. She knew _he_ didn't care that much about _her_ , either. David had only cared about Steven. Sometimes she wondered if they were lovers as well as cousins.

And not only was he blinded by thoughts of revenge, he had a lust for power.

That was one of the few things the siblings had in common.

But David couldn't handle the power. _She_ knew that. She was fairly certain her _uncle_ knew it too. But would he pass over David...who after all was a _man_ , in her favor?

Monica was no rival. Even though Monica had made the first, unsuccessful attempt to kill Standish, she had no desire for control of her uncle's empire. Give her the laboratory and she was happy. She was easily led. Always had been; even though Nina was younger, she'd always been able to manipulate Monica into doing what she wanted. Monica hadn't even questioned Nina's orders to get close to Vin Tanner.

David was different. He was in the way. An obstacle.

She arose at five and dressed with her usual care, making sure make-up covered the shadows under her eyes. Still, she was almost late to the deposition. Forcing herself by a sheer effort of will, she got through it then told her secretary she was taking the rest of the day off. While driving home she called her uncle's home. Arthur Curran wasn't in and neither was David. The butler told her David had rushed out of the house the afternoon before, carrying a small suitcase and saying only that he would be gone for a few days.

She called his cell phone, leaving a message on his voice mail even though she didn't expect him to answer. Then she went to his apartment, charming the landlord into unlocking the door. The place was clean-the building had a weekly housekeeping service-but the air felt stale. No cigarette butts littered the ashtrays-a dead giveaway David hadn't been here recently.

By noon she'd called every place she could think of-the beach house in San Diego, the apartment in LA, the penthouse in New York, his favorite casino in Vegas. She'd called several of her uncle's business associates, a couple of women she knew David slept with, and the few friends he had. No one had seen or heard from him.

Frowning, she walked out onto her balcony and stared out over the city. David hadn't killed Standish outright-she had enough sources in law enforcement to know they hadn't found the body and there would have been no reason for David to remove it for disposal elsewhere. Besides, that wasn't David's way. Uncle Arthur might just want Standish dead, but David wanted him to suffer first.

So where would he go?

 **7777777**

 ** _10:00 AM  
Federal Building, Denver_**

Eight men gathered in the conference room adjoining Team Seven's suite of offices: Chris sat at the head of the table and AD Travis at the foot. Around the circumference were Nathan, Josiah, Vin, JD, Assistant AD Montgomery, and Bobby Fewell.

Nathan looked at his teammates and mentally evaluated each one. No denying they could all use sleep, food-hell, just some downtime. They'd been going full throttle open for so long now-sooner or later someone was simply going to fall down on his face. By all rights it should be Chris. The team leader was exhausted, strained to the point of breaking. His face was parchment-white, his blond hair rumpled and sticking up from his head in clumps. He was still wearing the clothes he'd put on in Hugo - seemingly a lifetime ago. The medic in Nathan couldn't see how Chris was still functioning; the friend in him _knew_. Chris simply wouldn't _let_ himself collapse. No now. Not with Buck in critical condition.

Not when he had a man-a brother-missing.

In his usual position in the seat to the right of Chris, Vin Tanner sat, tall Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand, leafing through a pile of photos just delivered from the CSI unit. Harsh shadows muted his blue eyes and the hand that held the coffee cup shook ever so slightly.

The seat at Chris' left hand-Buck's usual place-was empty. Bobby Fewell had started to sit there, but five perfectly matched glares stopped him. Bobby sat near the foot of the table, next to Travis. Montgomery sat across from him.

JD sat in his usual position, next to the empty chair where his big brother usually sat. JD had been the only one not up all night searching for Ezra. But he hadn't gotten any sleep either, spending the long hours either next to Buck's bedside or prowling the corridor outside ICU. Chris had spared him a potentially heartbreaking decision by ordering him to remain at Buck's side while Chris took charge of the search for their missing friend. But JD had come in to the office two hours before the meeting, searching through Ezra's files and on his computer for anything that might give them a lead.

Security had been tightened to a stranglehold around the hospital with volunteers from the Denver PD-many of them Chris and Buck's old comrades-as well as neighboring towns arriving to lend a hand. Sergeant Hamilton-still smarting over the fact the phony respiratory therapist had got to Buck on _his_ watch-was stationed at the doors of ICU. ATF Team Eight leader Ryan Kelly was in Buck's room until someone from Team Seven could get back there.

Josiah had his hands crossed in front of him on the table as if he were praying for Divine Guidance. _'Well, we could use some of that,'_ Nathan thought with unwarranted bitterness. _'We sure aren't getting anywhere on our own.'  
_  
Nathan's eyes slowly swung to the other three men-the outsiders-sitting at the foot of the table. Even though Orrin Travis was a friend and responsible for the formation of Team Seven, he wasn't a _part_ of Team Seven. He'd place all the resources of the ATF at their disposal, along with any other help he could beg, borrow, or steal, but he wasn't part of their brotherhood; didn't share the bond that tied them together. As for Montgomery-Nathan knew the crippled agent had been highly thought of when he was in the field but he'd always struck him as a glorified paper pusher. And Bobby Fewell...

Nathan had liked the kid well enough, until that trip to Hugo. Bobby's attitude toward Ezra and the allegations he'd made since their return pissed Nathan off, to put it bluntly. He and Ezra had their problems—they'd definitely started off on the wrong foot, and there'd been times during the first months of Team Seven that Nathan had advocated for the con man's removal from the team. He'd probably held on to the idea Ezra was dirty longer than any of the others. But that was in the past. He and Ezra still didn't see eye to eye much of the time-hell, half the time he wanted to kill Ezra himself!-but deep down the bond was there. Friendship. Loyalty. Possibly even love.

Ezra was one of his brothers. And heaven help anyone who hurt him.

"So, what do we know?" Chris asked, stress making his voice lower than usual. His shoulders were tight with tension.

"There was blood on the needle. Not enough for a DNA match but the same type as Ezra's." Nathan spoke quietly but everyone's attention was on him. "And there were trace amounts of Haloperidol in the syringe."

Everyone looked blank.

"Haldol," Nathan clarified. "Major tranquilizer."

JD's eyes widened with dread. "Could that-" his voice trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

"No body," Josiah pointed out, his voice breaking slightly on the word, "body". "We combed that area. Helicopter search, too, as soon as the sun came up. If he'd been in the area, someone would have spotted him."

"He's not dead," Vin said flatly, leaving no room for argument. "Wouldn't've been no reason t' kill him and then take the body."

Of course, there _could_ be reasons to do just that, but no one was willing to consider Ezra dead, so no one voiced them.

"It _could_ kill him-if it was a big enough dose-but I'm with Vin."

"So what would a non-lethal dose do to him?" This question came from Travis.

"Knock him out, probably within one to five minutes, but-" Nathan hesitated.

"What?" Chris snapped.

"Well, there was a _lot_ of blood on that needle. Hard to see how that much could have got on there, even if the guy gave a really sloppy injection. Unless he hit a big vein or artery. I'm figuring the carotid. That would have knocked Ez out almost immediately."

Silence as they all digested that.

Vin broke it. "Crime scene boys got a clear cast of the tire impressions in the mud. Firestone. New, not much wear. They're figuring an American-made car, something smallish but powerful. They narrowed it down to four or five makes. Head lab guy couldn't prove it, but he had a hunch it was a Mustang." He passed around the photos. "There were skid marks leading into the impressions and coming out of them. And a one-eighty where the road dead-ends."

"So whoever it was slammed on his brakes when he saw Ezra, pulled over, then took off fast and turned around at the dead end, going back down the mountain." Chris looked frustrated. "That doesn't tell us much."

"Tells us he didn't know the area," Vin pointed out quietly. "Didn't know the road was going to dead end."

Chris nodded. "So we've got to assume that whoever took Ezra, wants him alive. At least for awhile."

"I'm thinkin' that lets out Bolo Orlowski," Vin commented. He hesitated, but before he could say anything more Bobby Fewell interrupted.

"Oh for God's sake! Aren't you all overlooking the obvious?"

Six pairs of eyes-Team Seven and Travis-glared at him. Montgomery looked like he wanted to kick Bobby under the table but couldn't since Travis in the way.

"What's so obvious?" Chris hissed, his voice cold and deadly.

If Bobby had been paying attention, he would have shut up and got as far away from Larabee and his men as possible. But instead he said, "The obvious is that Standish rigged his _'disappearance',_ of course. Have you all forgotten he was due in AAD Montgomery's office at eight this morning to answer for the Hugo mess? God I can't believe you all are so fooled by him! Standish is dirty-he was dirty in Atlanta, and he's dirty here-"

Chris rose from his seat in menacing silence, with Vin, Josiah and Nathan not even a half second behind him. Before they could do anything, though, JD Dunne snapped.

"You filthy-" he snarled, lunging across the table at his former friend.

Bobby, startled, shoved his chair backwards just in time, falling to the floor. Before JD could go after him again, Nathan had caught him by the shoulders. Not that he cared what happened to Bobby Fewell, but he'd be damned if he let JD ruin his career by punching the son of a bitch.

Chris strode across to the room and towered over the downed agent. "Get out of here," he ordered. He swung around to fix his gimlet eyes on Travis. "I want him off this investigation and away from my team."

Travis nodded. He looked at Montgomery and signaled him to get Bobby out of there.

Just as the conference room door was closing behind the AAD and the hapless agent, the phone rang. Vin was closest-Chris was still on the other side of the room and Josiah and Nathan were talking to JD in quiet tones-and he snatched it up. "Tanner."

Something about his intense silence brought every eye in the room to bear on him. He said, "What kind?" and then frowned as he heard the answer. "Send up the report." Hanging up, he turned to look at his teammates.

"What?" Chris asked.

"Might want to rethink the Bolo Orlowski thing. There was an incendiary device under the hood of the Jag. Remote control detonation. Ezra didn't just crash the car. Someone blew up his engine!"

 **7777777**

David Montgomery and Bobby Fewell didn't exchange any words until they were in the elevator going up. Bobby groused, "What is _with_ those guys, anyway? Can't they see-"

Montgomery stabbed the "Stop" button with his cane, turning to fix Bobby with a steely look. "That's enough," he hissed. "You are going to _withdraw_ your accusations against Standish. I don't care if you say you were dreaming, hallucinating, mistaken or having a religious vision-you retract your statement and you do it _now_. _"_

"The hell I will!"

Montgomery grabbed the suddenly quaking younger man by the collar, hauling him up to his tiptoes. "You'll _do_ it. Don't forget, I _own_ you, boy. I have an agenda that's a hell of a lot more important than your petty vengeance against Ezra Standish. And to accomplish it, I need you close to Team Seven. So get your ass in gear, Fewell. Retract your accusations, and make nice with the Team Seven boys. I don't care _how_ you do it, just do it. I've come too far to lose it all now just because some little snot nosed bastard like you gets uppity."

 _tbc..._


	20. Chapter 20

**Part 19**

Ezra slowly fought his way back to consciousness again. It was harder this time. His mind stubbornly didn't want to return to the shrieking blinding pain that his body had become.

But he had to come back. Something was wrong. Something beyond his aching head, the fiery pain plaguing him. Slowly, tentatively, he opened his eyes.

He was face-up this time. He blinked until a ceiling came into focus above him. Well not a ceiling actually. More like the underside of a roof. Exposed beams and wooden two by fours steeply climbing up to a peak.

He moved his head to look around his surroundings. Not a good idea. Agony knifed through his skull. He gritted his teeth, closing his eyes tightly again and fighting a losing battle against the nausea. He gagged, the meager contents of his stomach boiling up in his throat and forcing between clenched teeth. The sour-smelling mess splashed onto his clothes and the sagging surface beneath him before puddling on the floor.

Groaning, he fell backwards, feeling beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. Dimly he could make out some words through the roaring in his ears.

"You finally decide to wake up, Fed?"

Ezra furrowed his brow. The voice was vaguely familiar-not someone he knew well but certainly he'd heard it before. He forced his eyelids to unglue again.

A man's face floated in the blackish mist above him. He could make out the fine-boned features, the short blond hair and the grayish-green eyes before he had to shut his eyes again. _'The man who stopped to help me,'_ he thought fuzzily. Then he realized _'He wasn't there to help.'_

And then, suddenly, like the light bursting in front of his closed eyelids, he knew where he'd seen that face before. "Curran," he gasped. "Steven Curran."

"It's actually David Wyerly. Steven's cousin." The man sounded so uncannily calm. "Didn't know if you'd remember." A gloating tone filled the man's voice. "Glad you do. It'll make this _so much better."_

 **7777777**

The meeting broke up soon after Bobby Fewell and AAD Montgomery had left. Orrin Travis might be elderly, but he still commanded a power that drew every eye in the room to him when he promised Chris, "Anything you or your men need, Chris. Anything this agency or the government can offer-you get it. We'll get Agent Standish back."

Chris didn't say anything but nodded his head once. "Okay. Everyone knows what he needs to do. JD, I'll give you a lift back to the hospital. Take your laptop and your cell charger so we can keep in contact with you."

"I can-I can help search," JD offered. Everything inside him was shrieking to get back to his big brother but even as he said the words he knew how true they were. "Buck would...Buck would want us to concentrate on finding Ezra."

Chris stared at him, then the harsh lines around his eyes relaxed for just a fleeting second. "You're right, JD. He would. But I think the rest of us would feel safer if you were right there with him." As JD opened his mouth to argue, Chris held up a hand, stopping the flow of words. "Don't, JD," he said in the most gentle voice anyone had heard from him in days. "You'll do more good with Buck."

 _'Because we don't really have a clue where to look for Ezra.'_ JD knew that was the thought running through all their minds. He closed his eyes briefly. They would look...everywhere. Search through all of Ezra's old cases, check out anyone with a grudge. Josiah was doing that. Chris had contacts with the police, with his and Buck's old SEAL team. Vin was on the phone with his old CI's from his days with the US Marshals, contacting friends from the Army, as well as tapping sources from his days as a bounty hunter-the shadowy-rarely mentioned-part of his past. He was searching for some link to Bolo Orlowski.

That brought up something that had briefly occurred to JD somewhere in the long night of searching and waiting. "There's something I don't get," he said hesitantly.

"I don't get _any_ of this," Nathan muttered.

Vin looked up from the table, his eyes tired and red-rimmed with lack of sleep. "What is it, JD?"

JD licked his dry lips. "We're thinking that Bolo Orlowski-" he felt Chris and Nathan both cringe at the name; knew their looks of sadness and hatred were reflected on his own face. "That he came after Buck in the hospital. That maybe he was the one who got Ezra?"

"He has a motive," Chris ground out. "Bolo Orlowski _never_ fails. He didn't kill Buck in the loft, and he didn't kill Ezra with that bomb he planted in his apartment."

Vin took a deep breath. "I'm not sure he was tryin' to kill Ez."

Everyone stared at him, waiting. Chris' eyes narrowed. "You know something we don't, Cowboy?"

Vin looked at Josiah. The big profiler rifled through the stack of files in front of him, selecting one and handing it to Chris without a word. Larabee took it and somewhat impatiently opened it. His eyes scanned the contents. He stopped, reread something, then flipped the pages over again, his eyes darting back and forth, scanning the print. "Why the hell are we just finding this out now?" he snapped, rising impatiently from his seat and shoving the file back at Josiah.

"Investigative unit was backed up," Josiah said calmly, although his eyes were alive with blue fire.

"What is it?" Nathan and JD exclaimed, virtually in unison. Nathan reached for the file.

"That bomb...the one at Ezra's condo...it was a dummy. A fake," Vin explained. "It was never _'sposed_ to go off."

"Somebody is playing games with us," Josiah said.

"But the other bomb...the one in our place...it _was_ real-" JD started.

"Obviously," Chris snapped.

"So...Bolo Orlowski...or whoever...was trying to kill Buck, but _not_ kill Ezra? And Kevin Murine choosing that time to poison Ezra was just coincidence?" Nathan said the words as if he couldn't believe they were true.

"Mighty uncanny coincidence," Josiah pointed out.

"So...if it wasn't Bolo Orlowski...working for Hoyt...who _would_ try to kill Ezra?"

Nathan snorted. "Who _wouldn't_ try to kill Ezra?" He pointed at the stacks of files on either side of Josiah. "The man makes enemies just by breathing." He stopped suddenly, as if just remembering the man he was talking about was missing. "Hell," he muttered. "Coincidence, circumstance, maybe this or that...what do we really _know?"_

A long moment of silence.

"We know this," Chris said finally, firmly. "Someone tried to kill Buck. Three times. He's hooked up to tubes and machines in ICU because _someone_ wants him dead." He paused. "And I know this, too: Ezra's out there, somewhere. And we _will_ find him."

 **7777777**

Nathan stood and watched Vin nodding into the phone, doodling on a memo pad with a chewed-down pencil. Vin had only said a few words in the conversation, all of them in Spanish. Now, as Nathan watched, Vin broke the connection and dropped the phone to his desk, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, Nathan?" he said wearily.

Nathan hesitated, then made up his mind. He went over to his own desk. He'd hidden Buck's accordion file folder under it before the meeting, not wanting anyone to see it. Buck had been so insistent Chris not know about it-Nathan didn't know why, but he felt he needed to obey Buck's wishes and give the file to Vin. Slowly, he placed it on the blotter in front of Tanner.

Vin frowned, then he drew in breath in a sharp gasp. His eyes, faintly accusatory, met Nathan's. "That's Buck's."

Nathan nodded, surprised that Vin recognized it so quickly. "He wanted-wants-you to have it. Gave it to me to give it to you. Made me promise. And, he didn't want Chris to know anything about it." When Vin just sat there staring at the file and didn't open it, Nathan went on, "What's in it, Vin?"

The sharpshooter shook his head. "Not sure. Buck had me go to his place to get it, didn't want anybody to know about it then either. Especially not Chris."

Nathan frowned. "How'd you get it without Chris seeing it? All of Buck's stuff-I mean, what's left of his stuff-is packed in boxes at Chris' place."

"This was before the foundation started crumbling and they had us get everything salvageable out. I got it when I took JD over to check out the damage, get some of his clothes and stuff, after you guys got back from Florida. Buck wanted me to get it, told me where it was." Vin shook his head. "I never saw it-well, I saw it _once_ after that. One night when I was stayin' on the cot in Buck's room. He thought I was asleep, I think. He was pullin' stuff out of it, just kind of studying it." He frowned as a stray wisp of memory teased him. "I saw it again. Right before... before we left for Hugo. JD and I went into Buck's room and Chris was just layin' into him about something." He nodded. "This was on the table." He shot a glance at the medic. "So why did Buck want _me_ to have it?"

"Maybe something inside will tell us? He didn't give any explanation, just made me promise to give it to you and not to let Chris see it."

Vin started to loosen the string holding the folder together. "Don't know-" He was cut off by the ringing of the phone. Snatching it up, he barked "Tanner!" into the receiver.

"No, Larabee isn't here. He's...what? When? Damn it! Why didn't you call before...yeah, yeah, I know. Don't do a thing, hear? We're on our way."

"What?" Nathan was already standing, chilled by the look on Vin's face, the desolation in his eyes. "Something about Ezra?"

Vin swallowed hard, meeting Nathan's gaze with an effort. "That was the morgue," he said softly. "They got a body there...brought in last night...single stab wound to the chest. No ID. They think...they said...it meets Ezra's description."

 **7777777**

They didn't speak on the short drive to the County Morgue, housed in the same building as the District Attorney's office. _'Was only a couple of days ago Ez got hit by a car in this parking garage,'_ Vin thought as Nathan parked his Bronco. "Now-"

He didn't even know he'd said anything aloud until Nathan looked at him. "Now what?"

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

Nathan turned off the engine and the two men simply sat, looking at the elevators, knowing they needed to do it-needed to get out of the car, walk to the elevator, take it down to the basement. And then...

And then discover if a body-a naked, defenseless unknown remnant of a human being-was their friend. Their brother.

Neither one of them wanted to know for sure.

But both of them had to know for sure.

"Should we call the others?" Nathan broke the silence.

Vin shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "If it's...it is Ezra...time enough to tell them then. If it's not, we'd just get everyone riled up over nothin'."

Nathan didn't argue with Vin's logic although a voice deep inside cautioned him that the others, Chris and JD and Josiah, might feel differently if they were there.

They sat there a moment more and then, without even discussing it, both of them simultaneously opened their doors and stepped out onto the cold concrete floor.

 **7777777**

When civilians have to ID a body at the morgue, attempts are made to make the whole process more civilized, less cold and impersonal and just so damn painful. There's a viewing room, tastefully done up in soft green with a comfortable couch and chairs. The body is brought to an adjoining room and the beloved-or bereaved as the case might be-can look through a window lined with green drapes. The corpse is brought in on a rolling table, covered with a white sheet, and only enough of the sheet is lifted to allow for identification. The illusion is given that the dead one still has some dignity-that they are, indeed, a person, not just another cadaver for the county coroner's minions to slice and dice.

Because they were "professionals"-law enforcement officers, supposedly hardened and tough-Vin and Nathan were granted no such amenities. Instead an assistant, wearing a washed-out t-shirt and blue hospital scrub pants under a dirty lab coat, led them directly into what she called, with rather macabre humor, the "locker room"-the refrigerated room lined in metal lockers where the remains were kept pending autopsy or disposal. Chattering on and on about her boyfriend and how he'd kept her waiting thirty minutes for dinner last night, and how she was going to have sushi tonight if she had to kill to get it, she checked a clipboard hanging on the wall and then moved over to the long wall of lockers. "Let's see, twenty six...here we go." She swung the door open and pulled out the slab with a practiced hand. "This your guy?"

Vin and Nathan stared down at the naked figure, taking in the still, closed face; the clever hands, now stiff in death; the finely drawn features. Vin let out a long sigh. His eyes met Nathan's over the body.

"No," Nathan told the attendant. His voice was calm and quiet to his own ears-so strange when he wanted to laugh and cheer and then sit down somewhere and just cry until all this pent up worry and emotion was gone. It wasn't Ezra. There was still hope. "That's not Ezra Standish."

 _tbc_


	21. Chapter 21

_Author's note: I think some of you know my mom passed away right after I updated the last time. My dad had died about six months before her, and well, life's been...different lately. Then about the time I pulled myself together, Ruh knocked my laptop off the bed and goodbye, laptop. Fortunately most everything was saved on an external hard drive. This is one of my favorite chapters; I hope you enjoy reading it._

 **Part 20**

JD and Chris sat in tense silence in the cab of Chris' Dodge Ram. JD, in the passenger seat, kept looking at Chris out of the corner of his eye. _'He looks so tired.'_ The thought popped unbidden into JD's mind. He took a second look. _'Yeah...tired and old and...scared...'_

Well, hell. JD himself was tired. And scared. Buck was so sick...Ezra was missing...

He found himself wanting to say something comforting-encouraging-to Chris, but he couldn't think of anything. The mere impulse angered him. He was _mad_ at Chris, damn it! Chris had jumped all over Buck when Buck was so weak...

But Buck himself had told JD to forget that, that it was between him and Chris. Not any of JD's business.

It _was_ his business, damn it! Buck was his best friend. And Chris was-

Chris was Buck's _oldest_ friend. JD knew that. Theirs was a friendship that spanned so many years, was so complicated by grief and guilt and loyalty-

Loyalty?

Well, of course _Buck_ was loyal. Too loyal. He'd back Chris no matter what, just because...

Well...

 _'Buck isn't stupid.'_ That irritating voice in his mind was back. _'He's not self-destructive. He wouldn't have stayed with Chris all this time if...if Chris didn't_ _ **deserve**_ _him..._

Unable to stop himself, JD stole another look at the man driving the truck. They were stuck at a red light and Chris' fingers tapped impatiently against the wheel. His eyes stared into the distance. Somehow JD knew he wasn't seeing the traffic that surrounded them.

He had to say something. Anything. The silence was stifling. His thoughts insisted on going down paths he'd prefer not to traverse.

"Chris-" he started.

"Hear you're looking for an apartment," Chris said abruptly, his words drowning out JD's.

Caught off-guard, JD's mouth hung open for an instant before he slammed it shut. "How did you-" he started, confused. _'Bobby was the only one-but why would he tell Chris?'_

"Property manager called to verify employment." Chris seemed to hesitate. He had yet to look at JD.

"I-" JD was at a loss for what to say. He swallowed hard. "Bobby took me to see it." He felt embarrassed, almost ashamed, without knowing why. That made him mad. He blurted, "I can't sleep in your spare room forever."

Chris nodded, still staring out the windshield. The light finally turned green and he urged the truck forward.

JD kept talking, well babbling was more like it. "It's a nice place. Has a pool and Jacuzzi. A balcony. Like the one at home..." his words trailed off as it hit him, once again, that the place he had called "home" no longer existed.

"You talk to Buck about it?"

JD winced. Of course, he hadn't. Hadn't even thought about it. When he'd gone to look at the apartment, he hadn't known about the poison or the ventilator. He'd just been thinking that Buck was going to be in the hospital for awhile and-

Hell, he hadn't _been_ thinking. He'd just been acting impulsively again. Missing his "home" so much he'd been desperate to create one.

But it wouldn't be home if Buck wasn't there. If Buck didn't pull through.

He became aware Chris was waiting for an answer. "No. I didn't tell him. It doesn't have anything to do with him-" Even he could hear the defensive note in his voice, but still, Chris' reaction took him by surprise.

The team leader swerved the Ram over to the curb. Slamming it into "Park", he turned to face JD, impaling the younger man with the full force of his icy green gaze. "The hell it's not," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I know you're pissed at me, JD, but don't you go dragging Buck into the middle of it."

That sounded so much like what Buck had said that JD didn't even have a response. He blinked two or three times, trying to find words and vaguely realizing he must look stupid, when the sudden shriek of nearby sirens distracted him. Four or five police cars raced past, one after another, in full lights-and-siren mode. The speeding vehicles were followed closely by two huge, unwieldy black vans, both bearing the logo of the Denver PD. The rear one had the additional words "HazMat Unit" emblazoned in yellow across the back panel doors. JD's gaze followed the vehicles. His eyes grew huge as he realized their destination.

"Chris!" he choked out, panic surging through his blood. He pointed out the window with a shaky finger. "Chris!" He repeated urgently. "They're going to the hospital. The hospital. Buck's in there!"

Nina grabbed the phone on the first ring. "David?" she said, desperately hoping against hope it was her brother. Although _why_ would he call her now when he hadn't seen fit to do so far...

It wasn't him, of course. It was Monica.

 _"I have an idea,"_ she said.

"That would be a refreshing novelty," Nina snapped. "Is this idea likely to blow up in our faces like the last one did?"

Silence on the phone, broken by a faint sniffle.

Nina rested her head on her hand. _'Shit.'_ She cleared her throat. "Sorry. Monica? Stop crying. I'm sorry."

Her cousin could be _so_ high maintenance.

"What's your idea?" she prompted.

There was a minute of silence. To keep herself from shrieking like a madwoman, Nina leafed through a fashion magazine on her coffee table. _'Great. Pink is_ _ **the**_ _color for professional women this fall. I look like a hag in pink. Monica looks good in it, but then, she looks good in_ _ **every**_ _color. That is_ _ **so**_ _unfair. She doesn't appreciate her coloring_ _ **or**_ _that figure. Eats whatever she wants and never gains an ounce. I gain ten pounds just by_ _ **looking**_ _at what she has for lunch. And does she appreciate what she has? No. She'd live in blue jeans and scrubs if I didn't drag her out to buy decent clothes every few months._.."Monica!" she prodded again.

Finally. _"I...I think I know where David might be."_

Nina sat bolt upright on the sofa-no easy task given how overstuffed it was. "What? Where?"

 _"Steven's cabin up in the mountains."_

"No way." Nina dismissed the idea. "Don't you need four-wheel drive to get up that road? His car would never make it."

Monica cleared her throat. _"Well...no. But Steven's would."_

"The Stealth?" Nina stared at the phone. OK, Monica was an idiot about cars but still..."Monica, _you_ have the Stealth. And besides it's not four-wheel drive."

Now it was Monica's turn to sound exasperated. _"Not the Stealth, you moron. The other one. The SUV. I called the parking garage and David took it out yesterday evening. He left the Mustang there."_

Nina nodded slowly. The cabin. She'd never been there...it was Steven's retreat. Monica had been there once or twice but David used to go up with Steven all the time. Nina knew it was only ninety minutes or so from town.

"You know how to get there?" she asked.

 _"Well...not really. But I do still have the map Steven drew for me."_

Nina smiled as an idea occurred to her. "Fax it to me," she ordered. "And then go play in your lab for a while. Forget we ever had this conversation."

 _"Nina...what are you going to do?"  
_  
"Never you mind, Cuz." Nina depressed the switch hook and then hung up the phone gently. She switched on the fax machine, then went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She heard the high-pitched squeal of the fax machine before the kettle even boiled. She smiled inwardly. Good Monica. She could trust her to do as told.

Unlike David.

Monica was easily led. She didn't want any part of their uncle's empire-just wanted to be left alone to run her lab. Well, as long as Uncle Arthur continued to foot the bill...

She could trust Monica.

She could boss Monica.

She'd _never_ be able to trust David. Never be able to tell him what to do.

David was a hot-head. Not all that bright, either. Uncle _had_ to know his empire wouldn't be safe with David at the helm.

But still, David was a _man_. And Uncle Arthur could be old-fashioned about some things.

David was in the way.

And Nina didn't like things-or people-that stood in her way.

With any luck, she could win Uncle Arthur's game _and_ get rid of her brother.

She smiled blissfully at the prospect.

Vin and Nathan didn't speak as they drove back to the Federal Building. What was there to say? The dead body back at the morgue wasn't Ezra. That was a relief, but where was he? Was he all right? Had someone really snatched him or had he lost himself up in the mountains? Vin knew, better than anyone, Ezra was not at his best in the wilderness. Take him away from city lights and he was terminally lost. Vin winced, thinking about the blood on the shattered window of Ezra's car. A lot of blood. More than just a minor injury-

"What the heck-?" Nathan suddenly leaned forward and twisted the knob of the radio. It had been set-as usual- to Nathan's favorite classical music station. Vin's view of music was: _"It should have words."_ He tended to block out Nathan's music.

 _"...repeat, this is Dana Ross with a breaking news story. Police and fire units have converged on University Medical Center in response to a possible bomb threat. Although nothing has been confirmed as of yet, sources in hospital administration have reported some sort of incident on the fourth floor near the Intensive Care Unit. Members of the bomb squad and the HazMat unit have responded, as well as two men reportedly with the ATF. Police spokesperson Lt. Richard Ryan refused to confirm or deny federal involvement in the investigation. Ryan_ **did** _state officers had responded to the fourth floor and that one policeman was slightly injured. He refused to confirm-"_

"Nathan!"

"I know! Hold on!"

Vin gripped the handle above his window as Nathan skidded the Bronco into a U-turn and burned rubber racing toward the hospital.

Brandishing ATF ID's and hostile attitudes, JD and Chris made it through the blockade around the hospital. More than one of the Denver cops looked dour about the thought of "the Feds" horning in on _their_ crisis, but either because they knew Chris from his time on the force, or they didn't want to mess with federal agents, or they just took a good look at Chris' glare and JD's remarkable imitation of it, no one tried to stop them as they raced down the corridor to the bank of elevators. There was a uniformed officer there, standing next to a sign stating the fourth floor was off limits to all but essential personnel; Chris flashed his badge and the officer blinked once and backed away.

JD followed Chris onto the lift. The short elevator ride seemed to take hours. They'd turned off the Muzak system. "Never thought I'd miss hearing _'Feelings'_ ," JD muttered. He didn't even realize he'd said it aloud until Chris smirked at him.

"Call the IRS sometime," the older man responded. "They put you on hold and play _'Flight of the Bumblebee'_ over and over." It was the most civil conversation the two had exchanged in what seemed like years.

The doors slid open and the two of them moved as one. They stepped out...and reeled back as a stench worse than a dozen diseased corpses hit them full-on. Tears flooded JD's eyes and he fought them back, breathing only through his mouth as he pushed past all the people and ran down the corridor toward ICU.

Chris' eyes followed the running figure before he straightened his shoulders and looked at the milling crowd. The area between the two banks of elevators teemed with people: police and firemen as well as hospital personnel. And one familiar face: Ryan Kelly, Larabee's counterpart on Team Eight. Chris elbowed his way over to the other ATF agent. "Thought you were sittin' with Buck."

The overt hostility in his tone didn't seem to phase Kelly; he understood where Larabee's head was at right now. "Kirk's with him. Seemed more important for me to be out here."

Chris nodded and squeezed the other man's arm in apology. There were very few people he trusted outside of his own "family", but Kelly was one of them. Not just Kelly but all of Team Eight. Kelly wouldn't have left Buck unless it was urgent he do so. And Kirk Guston, Buck's counterpart on Team Eight, would protect the injured agent with his very life if need be.

"What's going on?" Chris asked, trying to breathe through clenched teeth. "God, what is that smell?"

Kelly grinned humorlessly. "That smell is what someone seemed to think would make a good get-well present for Buck."

Chris froze. "What?" he hissed softly. Fire lit his gimlet eyes.

"It's okay." Kelly had been maneuvering them through the crowd. "Never got anywhere near Buck." He stopped at the open door marked "Lounge." Chris knew the room well: it held a Coke machine and snacks, as well as a coffee pot, perpetually filled.

The smell was stronger in here and Chris almost had to gasp for breath. His eyes were caught by the huge floral arrangement that the Bomb Squad and two or three HazMat guys were carefully packing up. Lots of tall, spiky blue and white flowers in a Chinese-style bowl. He frowned, knowing he'd seen something similar before. Then it hit him: Buck had received an identical bouquet the day he'd confronted him about Bolo Orlowski. Chris had taken it into his friend himself. He stiffened, but logic immediately told him this could not be the same arrangement. The flowers were fresh. His eyes met Kelly's. "Buck?"

Kelly seemed to understand what he meant and nodded. "Hospital volunteer brought 'm up." He nodded toward a middle aged blonde woman in the cheerful pink smock of the hospital volunteers, who was sitting on a hard plastic chair and sobbing. "She was goin' to show them to Buck, ask if he wanted them to go to Oncology or the Burn Ward. Don't think she realized Buck's on the ventilator."

Chris winced, not hearing the end of Kelly's sentence. His mind locked onto three words.

 _'The Burn Ward.'_

 _...Listening as Adam screamed from pain beyond understanding..._

 _...The sound of machines slowing their urgent noises as his son took his last breath and slipped away...  
_

. _..The way Buck was slipping away now..._

"No!" Chris said it aloud. A few people turned to stare at him. Kelly gripped his shoulder.

"Chris, it's okay. The stuff isn't deadly...just repulsive." Kelly nodded to the investigators. "They said it looked like a simple timer-anybody who walked into a Radio Shack could figure out how to make one."

Chris met Kelly's eyes. "What happened?"

"Volunteer brought them up on the elevator, was on her way to ICU when one of the cops doing guard duty stopped her, took them away from her. She was pretty irate about it but the cop insisted. Brought them in here to look them over and that was when it detonated. Cop got a lung full of the stuff."

Chris' eyes narrowed. " _Which_ cop?"

JD's Nikes pounded on the slick linoleum as he raced through the double doors leading into ICU. Barely slowing his pace, he made a beeline for Buck's room.

And was stopped short outside the room by the scene within.

Team Eight's Kirk Gustin sat in the chair where JD had perched so many hours, reading aloud from a battered paperback. Buck's eyes were closed. JD's eyes were drawn to the monitors above the bed. He knew very little about them, but his eyes unerringly went to the cardiac monitor, which showed an even, steady beat.

Relief threatened to knock him down. He grabbed hold of the door frame and closed his eyes against the lightheadedness.

"JD?"

JD turned at the woman's voice. It was a measure of his fatigue that it took him a full thirty seconds to recognize her. "Kim! Hey. You're back..."

Kim Sykes nodded as she stepped closer. She'd been Buck's primary nurse during his first stay in ICU and had endeared herself to Team Seven by her patient but cheerful manner, as well as the way she completely ignored visiting restrictions and let them stay with Buck as much as they wanted. She'd conjured up blankets and pillows to encourage them to sleep, and-from somewhere-sandwiches and fruit and coffee to keep them going.

"Thought you were on vacation," JD said now. He was honestly so glad to see her. He'd missed her cheerful smile and always-encouraging manner since Buck had returned to ICU.

"Today's my first day back." Kim nodded over JD's shoulder at Buck's cubicle. "See Buck couldn't stand being away from the best-looking nurses in this hospital."

JD smiled a little bit at the joke, knowing Buck would have encouraged it. "Yeah..." He turned back to study his best friend worriedly. "How is he?"

Kim sighed. "He's been restless. We had to increase his sedation."

Guilt flooded JD. _'I shouldn't have left him,'_ he reproached himself. Then in a flash he remembered _why_ he had. Ezra. Their friend was out there, somewhere; missing, probably injured. Maybe in the hands of some lowlife scum that wouldn't balk at killing a federal agent-would more likely be thrilled to do so. He took a deep breath. Buck would understand. Hell, if he could, Buck would have _ordered_ JD out to look for Ezra, no matter what his own condition.

"Hey, JD." Kirk Guston had spotted him and rose, heading toward the door with that easy, long-legged grace that was so like Buck's, yet so heartbreakingly different. "I was just keepin' Buck here company until you got back."

"Where's Kelly?" JD asked, not really caring but more because he had to say something.

"You probably went right past him. He's out with that crowd by the elevators, trying to figure out where the stink-bomb came from."

JD frowned. He'd forgotten the horrible smell in his rush to get to Buck's side. He looked around, only then realizing Chris wasn't with him, and realized the older man must have stayed with the crowd to find out what was going on.

JD really didn't care. He'd find out eventually. Right now he just needed to be with Buck.

Needed his use his own presence to anchor Buck here. Buck wouldn't let go if he knew how much JD was counting on him to live.

JD knew that as well as he knew his own name.

Monica obeyed Nina partially-she went to Riverside Pharmaceuticals. But not into the lab. She knew she was too restless, too agitated to do anything productive there.

Instead she locked herself in her office. For a long time she sat at her desk, staring at the piles of paper without really seeing them. Much of the paperwork concerned T-27. The drug was promising. So promising. Early clinical trials had gone so well. Even with the recent spurt of negative publicity, two of the major pharmaceutical companies were vying for the rights to manufacture and distribute T-27. Course they'd slap some advertising-friendly name on it. That was okay. With the kind of money they were offering and the reputation this would garner her, Riverside Pharmaceuticals would be set.

Finally she cast off even the pretense of working and wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling windows looking onto the back of the property, onto the little stand of woods and the creek. When they were going over the plans for the building she'd originally protested putting windows there, afraid the view would distract her. Steven had overruled her. "You spend too much time inside, Monica. Do you good to remember there's a beautiful world out there." He'd been right, of course.

She sighed and closed her eyes, leaning her face against the cool glass. Unbidden the thought of Vin Tanner popped into her mind. She knew he must be frantic by now. With one of his friends in the hospital, and another one missing, his world would be teetering. Vin had told her just yesterday his teammates were the family he'd lost with his mother's death.

 _Family._

She shook her head. _'You ought to be grateful you don't have a family, Vin. Family isn't so great. Families only cause you pain.'_

Monica had grown up knowing no one really loved her. As a child she'd felt it must be her fault some way. The few vague memories she had of her parents involved anger and noise and pain.

Her small world swept away by rage and violence, Monica had come to live with her aunt and uncle and cousin. Her uncle barely noticed she existed. Steven had been fun but then, too soon, David and Monica had come along and David and Steven were always engaged in "guy-things" that she was never allowed to know about. David teased and tormented her unmercifully; nothing gave him as much pleasure as making her cry. Steven defended her occasionally but Monica soon learned a better defense-lock her feelings away. Never let David-or anyone-see how much she hurt.

Her aunt...Monica frowned again. She tried not to think of her aunt very often. It wasn't her aunt's fault that she wanted an outgoing, vivacious daughter and got saddled with a painfully shy bookworm. It wasn't her aunt's fault that Monica's mannerisms and Irish coloring were inherited from her father, the man her aunt hated with every fiber of her being for taking away her beloved only sister.

But it was her aunt that chose to take out her anger and hatred and grief on the defenseless child left in her care.

It was emotional abuse. Monica realized it now, but for a long time she'd resisted the idea: her aunt didn't _abuse_ her. She rarely hit her, only a slap across the face now and then. She was never spanked; the stock punishment for her crimes had been to send her to her room. In spite of everything Monica had to grin. Her aunt had _never_ figured out that sending Monica to her room-surrounded by her books and her TV and music and imaginary friends-was not a punishment. There, she could escape from David's taunts and her uncle's indifference and her aunt's constant criticism.

 _…"Monica, straighten your shoulders. I swear I'm going to buy you a brace. You carry yourself like a sack of oats..." "Dear God, what is_ _ **that**_ _you're wearing? Last time I let_ _ **you**_ _buy your own clothes" ..."Young lady, I have never seen such rudeness. We have guests and you sit there with your nose in a book"..."Stop crying, for God's sake! David didn't hurt you. He's just teasing you..."_

Monica shivered, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself as she, against her will, remembered her aunt's favorite remark, always delivered in a low, hissing voice, with an expression of true hatred on her face. _"You get away from me. Out of my sight. You're just like your father. That murdering bastard! And you make me sick."_

Nina had been her only real friend throughout her childhood. Younger than Monica, adored by her aunt, uncle-just about everybody-just for being Nina. Still, those green eyes could lighten Monica's spirits in a second. Those eyes and that smug smile that made her dimples show. Only with her little cousin, Monica could pour out all her pent-up love and be loved in return.

No one would take Nina away from her. Not like her parents. Or-NO! She wouldn't remember that. Wouldn't _let_ herself remember that.

Forcing herself to block out the past, she pulled the piles of paper closer. T-27 would make her, give her respect in the scientific world. Save innumerable lives.

And it made a nifty tool for murder too.

Should have killed Ezra Standish. She still couldn't believe that the ER doctor had interned in her lab and recognized the chemical signature in Standish's blood work.

There had been no such complication the first time she used T-27 to kill, rather than to heal. Well, it wasn't T-27 then. Which version? Oh yes. Eighteen.

No one ever suspected her aunt's death wasn't natural.

She shook her head, banishing the smile. Needed to forget that. It was in the past. Done. Finished. She had another job now.

To wrap Vin Tanner so securely around her finger he didn't know whether he was coming or going.

A thought occurred to her and she smiled again. Perfect. Would score points with Vin and give her a puzzle to sink her teeth into. She reached for the phone.

"Marci," she said to her secretary. "Get me University Medical Center. The labs. Find out who's working on identifying the poison used on a patient named Buck Wilmington."

Within fifteen minutes she had the satisfaction of knowing a courier was speeding toward her with what she needed. The head of the labs at UMC had been almost pathetically grateful for Riverside's promise of help.

Monica hummed to herself as she pulled on a lab coat. She'd get to play in the lab today after all.

 _tbc..._


	22. Chapter 22

**Part 21**

Ezra felt himself drifting awake again, felt it and fought it. _'No.'_ Waking only brought pain. Searing agony that made it impossible to breathe; that made him long for the darkness, the peace of oblivion.

 _Just let go..._

He'd lost track of the time, of how long he'd been here. Wherever _here_ was. Was it the same day? The same week? Did the others know he was gone? Were they even looking for him?

He could answer that question immediately. If they knew, they were looking. They'd find him. Between JD's computer hacking and Vin's tracking...oh dear, that rhymed. His mind was drifting. _"Really, Ezra, pull yourself together. And just_ _ **look**_ _at yourself, son! What am I going to do with you? I've told you a thousand times, appearances..."_

"...are everything. Yes, Mother..." his voice sounded thin and weak and so very far away.

"Mother?"

Where was she? She had been here...he opened his eyes again, forced the lids open to scan the room blearily. No sign of his captor. No sign of his mother.

Well of course, Maude wouldn't be caught dead in such a rustic habitation...

He felt the warmth of his own blood soaking into his trousers-trousers that were already stiff with dried blood. His captor liked the knife. Liked it even more than using his fists.

Or that hammer.

Ezra tried to take a deep breath, stiffening as the agony of broken ribs tore through his battered body. His vision darkened even more.

Let go...

 _"Damn it Standish, don't you dare. You promised me you'd never run off again..."_

"Mr. Larabee. I am currently being tortured-I must assume my demise is the desired end result. I must inquire how dying in my present situation can be considered _'running out'_ on you and our compatriots."

 _"It is if I say it is."_

Chris Larabee leaned closer, into Ezra's face, until his green eyes were no more than a blur. _"You hang on, damn it. We're out looking for you. You have to know that. You've got to give us time enough to find you."  
_  
"And how am I to do that?" Ezra felt his eyes drifting closed even as he spoke.

 _"Ezra! You hang on, damn it!"_

The angry tone made his eyes snap open. The features before him swam and slowly his eyes focused on the enraged face of his captor.

Even as he braced himself for another round of torture he was embracing the promise Chris had made. Where Chris was now he wasn't quite sure, but he knew his friend's words were true. They were out there looking. He just had to survive long enough for them to find him.

"Please...Please hurry!"

Josiah Sanchez didn't normally pace. He had always thought pacing was a useless waste of nervous energy-unless of course the pacer was an expectant father. Better to conserve energy and expend it in a functional manner.

But today, alone in the offices of Team Seven, with one teammate on life support in the hospital and another missing altogether, he paced.

Paced and tried to form prayers from a mind so overwhelmed between rage and fear and grief that no coherent words could be summoned. Instead he silently chanted, _'Please God. Please.'_

The God of his father would have been disgusted with such a poor entreaty. Josiah hoped the God he'd finally come to believe in would be more understanding...responding to the intent rather than the formulation.

He hated being alone. He hated being here at all. He should be doing something. Something! Looking for Ezra. He ignored the little voice that logically asked, _"Look where?"_

Vin and Nathan would be back soon. They'd called a few minutes before. That was the first time Josiah had heard about a bomb scare at the hospital. By the time they had got to the hospital the emergency crews had stepped down. Not a bomb. Well, a stink bomb. Not lethal but annoying.

In a bouquet of flowers intended for Buck.

 _'What the hell is going on?'_

Bombs, poisonings, hit and run drivers. Vin shooting that kid in Hugo. JD stressed out-which made sense, he certainly was entitled-but his feelings were taking the form of anger at Chris. _That_ Josiah couldn't figure out at all. JD had always carried a healthy amount of hero-worship for the Team Leader. Now all of a sudden JD seethed with hostility, most of it directed at Chris. Almost as if he blamed Chris for the bombing and Buck being so injured...

And then Ezra...

Josiah walked to the window, staring out over Denver. "Where are you, Ezra?" he asked the unheeding cityscape.

He'd gone down to the cafeteria for a sandwich-less because he was hungry than because he'd had to get out of the silent office. While standing in line he'd overheard two FBI agents talking about Ezra. "I'm not going out searching for that turncoat," one of the agents had laughed. "Ten to one they'll find him in Barbados or someplace living it up on someone else's money."

The other agent had shook his head. "Nah. I bet he's dead. About time, too, if you ask me. How long did the guy think he could get away with playing both sides? _'Best undercover agent'_ my ass! Why they didn't charge him after Atlanta-"

Josiah had listened, rage building a fire inside him. He took a deep breath and stepped out of line, heading for the table with the two gossiping agents, ready to heap a little "Old Testament wrath" on their hapless heads.

And then he stopped dead.

Silently, with deadly stealth, the table and the two men sitting at it had been surrounded. The two FBI agents looked up, startled, to see easily a half dozen men-with more arriving every second-crowding close to them. Nothing was said but silent menace cracked through the air.

The first agent cleared his throat, looked as if he was having trouble just moistening his mouth enough to get out words. "Something wrong, fellas?" He looked toward a tallish man that Josiah vaguely remembered as being one of the newly arrived FBI agents. Wait...didn't Ezra say the man was from Atlanta?

Josiah took another step forward, determined to protect his missing brother, but then stopped again as he realized his efforts weren't needed. Lethal anger boiled from the surrounding men, but it wasn't anger directed at Ezra Standish, but rather toward the two men who'd disparaged him.

Josiah looked around. There were two ATF agents: Gibbons from Team 3 and Peters-Josiah thought his name was Peters-another young agent like Bobby Fewell, working with more experienced teams preparatory to setting up another team. The rest of the silent crowd were from other agencies. Josiah didn't know all of them, some of them he didn't even recognize-but they were all wearing the same expression on their faces.

Contempt for the stupid writhing Fibbies who were trying desperately to look anywhere but up.

The agent they'd first addressed broke the cold silence. "Mistah Gibbons?" His accent was so similar to Ezra's when they'd first met that Josiah almost expected it to be Ezra standing there.

"Yes, Agent Bridges?" Gibbons answered, a suddenly dangerous smile crossing his face.

"Ah believe ah just heard these two volunteerin' ta help in the search for our missin' teammate, didn't you?"

Gibbons' eyes crackled with icy glee. "Indeed I did!"

"Well, then, come on, let's assist them in pickin' up their assigned search area."

"Wait a minute!" the second seated FBI agent broke in desperately. "We didn't, I mean..." he stammered to a stop as he noticed all the hostile glares focusing in his direction. "I mean...it's just that I'm about off duty-"

"Well, then, we doubly appreciate your gesture." Bridges smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. As a matter of fact, with a little bit of work, Bridges would have the Larabee Death Glare perfected.

The agent hesitated, then nodded, swallowing hard. "I was just on my way up to Tactical," he offered faintly.

"No need for that," Gibbons broke in. "Peters and I were just on our way out to search-we'll be glad of your help."

Peters nodded, looking like he ate raw meat for breakfast and wasn't at all picky about maybe adding freshly killed FBI agents to his diet. Nodding nervously, one eye on Peters and the other warily fixed on Gibbons, the agent made to stand.

Apparently his friend wasn't as wise. "I ain't goin' looking for no-ack!"

The crowd had parted silently to let still another agent through. Josiah recognized him instantly-Luke Harris, the hulking former fullback for the Detroit Lions-or was it the Green Bay Packers?-who'd joined the Secret Service because he found football just too damned boring.

Rumor had it he determined the success of a day by how many people he knocked unconscious.

Now his massive meaty paw clenched into the collar of the hapless FBI agent, lifting his feet from the ground. Josiah probably could have done the same himself but he didn't think he'd be so effortless about it.

"Don't know where you two milk skinned ladies come from, but where _I_ come from we back up our people. _All_ our people. And I don't like hearin' anyone say otherwise. You got that?" He punctuated each word with a shake.

"Umm...umm...yeah!" The FBI agent wheezed out.

Harris dropped the man back into his chair, and then, before the poor guy could run or move-do anything but try to catch his breath-he caught him up again, albeit a touch more gently this time. "Glad to hear it. Danny!"

Josiah hadn't noticed the blonde man leaning against the wall until he spoke. Daniel McMillan had been watching his partner shake down the terrified Fibbie with an amused smirk on his face. "Right here, Luke."

"We got an extra pair of eyes to help us today." He shoved the FBI agent towards his partner.

"Glad to have you aboard," McMIllan told the man, who looked like he was trying to decide whether to puke or just pee his pants. He grinned up at his partner. "You silver tongued devil you."

Harris grinned-at least Josiah assumed that's what the grimace was. "Learned from the best, partner."

McMillan nodded, fixing his eyes on the FBI agent. "Taught him everything he knows about persuasion," he commented cheerfully. "Steady on there, old man...you look a bit pale." He grabbed his shoulder, keeping him from keeling into a table.

The crowd dispersed as quickly and as quietly as it had gathered, most of the men patting Josiah on the shoulder or tossing him a thumbs up. Apparently they all knew who _he_ was even if he didn't know them.

No, he did know them, now. They were his brothers.

For the first time in too many hours, Josiah felt a measure of hope. He straightened his shoulders.

They'd find Ezra. They'd save Buck. There wasn't much Team Seven couldn't do if they put their minds to it, and this time they had help.

A lot of help.

Chris Larabee strode down the hospital corridor, the heels of his boots echoing hollowly around him. He'd checked on the cop who'd inhaled a lung full of the stink bomb, somehow not that surprised to find it was Sgt. Hamilton. The veteran cop looked over the plastic oxygen mask to meet Chris' eyes. They didn't say anything but after a minute Chris gave him a tiny nod.

 _'Ironic as all hell,'_ Chris mused, that of all people it would be Hamilton who seemed to be constantly around these days when there was a threat to a member of Team Seven. His mind drifted to that night Ezra had checked himself out of the hospital AMA. Felt like years ago but actually it had only been a few weeks. He could see the defiant smirk on Hamilton's face as he admitted to driving Ezra across town to University Medical Center once he'd heard about Buck. Then the comment as Chris had made to enter the building _..."I hate your guts, Larabee. And I don't like Wilmington much either. But no matter what happened back then, I never wanted anything like this to happen to him. You two were good cops. You're probably good Feds. I hope he's okay."_

A hell of a lot different than the threats he'd screamed in the review hearing seven years ago...

Then Chris pushed through the double doors of ICU and all thoughts of Sgt. Hamilton fled from his mind.

There was something about the way both nurses looked at him that immediately sent alarm bells ringing in his head. "What?" he demanded. "What's wrong? Is Buck worse?" He quickly looked through the window into Buck's cubicle. JD was there, sitting in the chair where Chris himself had spent so many hours, holding Buck's hand. His lips moved but Chris wasn't close enough to hear what he was saying. Chris' frown deepened as he took in the way Buck was moving, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. He whirled around on the nurses. "What's wrong?" he repeated.

"Agent Larabee, can I speak with you down here?" The nurse, Kim, stepped forward and gestured down the hall to the tiny conference room. Chris almost argued-he wanted to know what was going on, now, damn it! -but catching the intent look on her face he nodded reluctantly, realizing that visitors to the rooms on either side of Buck's had stepped out to see what the raised voices were about. JD hadn't seemed to notice.

Chris followed the nurse, restraining his impatience with a Herculean effort . The room wasn't any different-two armchairs, small table, overgrown potted plant-than it had been the last time he'd been in it. When he'd agreed to put Buck back on the respirator. God, had that only been yesterday?

Kim turned to face him. To her credit, she didn't beat around the bush. "Mr. Wilmington's blood pressure is dropping. His heart rate is erratic," she said bluntly. "I've paged Dr. Culver. He's out of the hospital right now but he's expected back shortly. The resident is on his way up."

Chris stared at her. "So what-" he started.

There was a perfunctory tap on the door and then it opened to reveal a husky man-about Vin's age, Chris guessed-with a shaved head. He wore the regulation white coat but underneath it the loudest Hawaiian shirt ever seen outside of Disneyland. A tiny surfer, complete with board, was clipped to the stethoscope around his neck. "Yo, Kim," he all but caroled. "You rang?"

"Yeah, Silly," Kim answered. She added, to Chris, "This is Dr. Bailey, he'll be taking care of Buck until Dr. Culver can get here." She squeezed past Chris, leading the resident with her. Chris just stood still. His mind was whirling with the possible repercussions of what she'd said, but the only thought he could actualize was _'Did she just call him "Silly"?'_

JD stopped talking. He kept doing that, starting and stopping. He'd started to confide in Buck all his worries and fear for Ezra, but quickly stopped that. He didn't know how much Buck could hear in his sedated state but the _last_ thing Buck needed to know was that Ezra was missing. Then he'd talked about how angry he was at Chris-and had to stop that as well. After all, what he was angry with Chris _about_ was Buck...and he knew Buck would be upset if he heard that.

He felt so alone. Just as he'd felt back in Boston, after his mother had died. All alone with one in the world to care whether he was happy or sad or honest or a crook or even alive or dead.

He'd found a family when he'd moved to Denver. A special family of six big brothers. And one special big brother, best friend, surrogate mom and dad and warm puppy all rolled into one.

If Buck didn't make it...if he slipped away...

 _'He won't!'_ JD told himself.

But if he did...JD didn't think he'd ever have a home or a family again.

Buck shifted again. He'd quieted at first when JD had come in, seemingly relaxing when he'd heard his roommate's voice; but when JD fell silent he became restless. Fine beads of sweat dampened the dark hair and puddled in the shadows under his eyes. JD padded away for a cool, wet washcloth. Resuming his seat, using the cloth to carefully wipe the sweat from Buck's face, he had to choke back a sudden sob at his friend's still face. Buck wasn't supposed to be still. He wasn't supposed to be this lifeless. Buck had one of the most expressive faces JD had ever seen. JD had overheard two secretaries talking once. Both of them had dated Buck and they were comparing notes. JD's first thought had been, "How the _hell_ does he get away with that?" He could just imagine if Casey Wells found out _he'd_ dated one of her friends. She'd hang him from the nearest tree by his scrotum, always assuming she just didn't tell her Aunt Nettie to blow his brains out with her ever-ready shotgun.

But jealousy seemed to be the last thing on the women's minds. One of them commented that Buck _"could light a room up with just his smile."_

JD knew that smile. The smile that said without words everything would be okay, that there was nothing Buck Wilmington and JD Dunne couldn't beat, especially when they were together with the rest of the seven amassed behind them.

God, he needed to see that smile now.

JD felt the sobs tearing at his throat, desperate to come out. He choked them back ruthlessly. He was a man. Men didn't cry. Well, okay, they _did_ cry sometimes but they _shouldn't_ cry. He wasn't going to cry. He was JD Dunne. ATF agent. A man. He wasn't going to cry like the sniveling child he felt like inside.

 _'Please Buck, please...please.'_

He could fight back the sobs but not the tears: he felt their warm saltiness on his lips, his tongue. Angry with himself for this weakness, angry with Chris, just angry, he lashed out at the unconscious form in the bed. "Damn you, anyway, Buck Wilmington! How could you let this happen?"

He could hear something, a voice. Familiar, but raised in an anger that was unusual for that voice. Buck listened hard, trying to figure out who it was.

JD.

He relaxed. JD was here. Wherever here was.

But he sounded so upset. More than upset, angry. Mad. Really mad.

That wasn't normal for JD. Something had to be wrong.

He tried to speak but an iron bar in his throat prohibited such an action. Panicking, he tried to move, to see...but his body wasn't his to control.

Not even his breathing. Something hot and hard and hurting was in his throat, choking him, He couldn't breathe...but he was getting air somehow. Frightened, he gave up trying to figure out how that could be, ignored the deep heavy pain in his chest, the persistent ache in his leg.

Something was wrong with JD.

He had to help his little brother.

But his body again refused to listen to his brain's commands. Exhausted, he stopped for a minute. The smothering blackness he'd so recently escaped from was there, close...beckoning seductively. It promised an escape from the pain, the fear.

He resisted the call. He needed to help, needed to know what was going on.

They were in danger. He knew this. Knew his friends, his family, were in trouble. Something threatened them, someone. Someone close by.

And then he realized what he'd been missing, searching for, for five years.

Chris! He had to tell Chris. Warn him...

The vice around his chest tightened. He couldn't breathe at all now, couldn't move, couldn't escape from the crushing pain. The blackness boiled closer. He couldn't fight anymore, he had to get away, get away from the pain...

The last thing he heard was heard JD's voice, loud, high pitched with fear, as Buck slid away from the agony of his body and let the blackness carry him away.

JD automatically jumped back from the bed when the alarm shrieked. Heart pounding, knees shaking so hard he could barely move, he managed a step forward but a nurse, running in pushing a cart laden with equipment, grabbed his arm and pulled him away. Kim appeared from somewhere and tried to lead him out the door but he resisted, watching with horrified eyes as a young, bald doctor helped the first nurse to shove a board under Buck's limp body and then started pounding on his chest. _'His ribs...he'll hurt his ribs...'_ JD started forward, intent only on stopping the doctor before he could do any more damage. He heard the man yell something, but he couldn't make out the words over the roaring in his ears. _'Someone turn off that damn alarm,'_ he thought dizzily.

Everything seemed to drift away...

And then someone was shaking him, hard. It hurt. He blinked and focused blearily on Chris Larabee in front of him. Chris' lips were moving but seemingly not in time with his voice. "...JD! JD, snap out of it. We've got to give them room to work."

Chris was dragging him away. Away from Buck. JD struggled. "Let go of me, damn it!" He'd never yelled at Chris like that before. "Buck needs me!"

He shot a look back over his shoulder. More and more people were crowding around Buck's bed. He had to get them away. Buck wouldn't like all those people hovering around him. When he was sick he liked to be alone. Curl up and lick his wounds in private. Just like Ezra, or Vin. Chris ought to know that, damn it. He'd known Buck for all these years and he didn't understand something so basic to his personality?

"JD!" Chris yelled again, in his ear. He manhandled the younger man around, so that he was facing the bed and the frenzied medical personnel. "JD," he said, softly now, sounding almost like his voice was shaking or he was crying or something. "JD, we've got to give them room to work. They've got to bring Buck back."

Back. JD's mind locked onto that word like a steel trap. Back from where? What the hell was Chris talking about? He wasn't making any sense.

And then-with a cold rush of fear, of horror, of sick realization-all the pieces fell into place and JD almost fell to his knees, kept on his feet only by Chris' iron grip on his arms. "Oh, God, oh Buck..."

Buck's heart had stopped again.

Back in the office, Josiah finally sat down on Vin's desk-pushing aside a large expandable file folder-and reached for the next file. Nathan had sorted them and stacked them neatly on Ezra's desk, with the spillover on the floor nearby. All the files, going back three years to the beginning of the team. The ones that might have posed a special threat to Ezra were flagged with bright pink stickies.

There were a disheartening lot of those. Josiah could almost hear Nathan's voice, grousing, _"Ain't you ever met anybody you didn't piss off, Ezra?"  
_  
The file in Josiah's hand was a thick one. The label read, "Curran, Steven."

 _'Steven Curran.'_ Josiah closed his eyes briefly.

The Curran case had been Hell from the very first. Steven was the son of Arthur Curran, long suspected of being a major player in the criminal underworld. The FBI had been trying for more than twenty years to take him down and were salivating at the thought of getting him through his son. Three of Quantico's finest arrived in Denver, set on taking over the case.

Until they ran into the double brick wall of AD Orrin Travis and SAIC Chris Larabee.

Relegated to the sidelines, the FBI agents had proceeded to offer unwanted advice, annoy Chris and harass Ezra and Vin, who were going undercover. And then, the night before the two were to vanish into their new roles, one of Buck's old snitches from his Denver PD days had tipped him that Pelly O'Malley was now working for Steven Curran. Pelly had a long rap sheet in Denver and Chris and Buck had arrested him more than once. Worse than that, four years before Pelly O'Malley had been captured-after jumping bail-by a bounty hunter named Vin Tanner.

This threw the mission into a tailspin. Vin was eliminated from going under; likewise so were Chris and Buck. There wasn't enough time to set up suitable backgrounds for any of the other three members of Team Seven, and Ezra refused to go under with any of the Fibbies for back up. Chris probably could have ordered him to do it-well, Chris could have ordered and Ezra _probably_ would have obeyed, but when Ezra pointed out that given a choice between a Feeb for backup and no backup at all, no backup would be safer, Chris had given in to the inevitable.

And so Ezra had gone under alone; he'd met Steven Curran and in an almost shockingly short time was Curran's confidant and had enough information to topple Steven Curran's power base.

But that wasn't enough for the FBI. They wanted Arthur Curran and insisted if Ezra just worked hard enough, stayed under longer, he could find the links that led from son to father.

The assignment dragged on. More and more time lapsed between Ezra's contacts with his team. Nathan fretted over the amount of weight Ezra was losing. Chris fumed over the lack of back up; he hated sending any of his men in without an "escape clause". Buck and JD would have worked around the clock to keep track of Ezra if they could have. And Vin and Josiah tracked down every lead, only to hit a dead end every time.

It blew up in their faces nine weeks later. When the smoke cleared Steven Curran was dead-shot by Ezra in self-defense-but his father's empire remained inviolate. The lead FBI agent had been infuriated, strongly hinting that Ezra hadn't found the link because Ezra didn't _want_ to find the link. Fortunately-or maybe unfortunately given your point of view-Travis and Montgomery had hustled the agent out of there before blood was spilled.

Now Josiah frowned, leafing though the file folder. Steven Curran had a cousin, David. He'd been arrested in the fallout but was almost immediately released on bail and subsequently the DA had decided not to file any charges against him, citing a lack of direct evidence.

David-what was his last name? Josiah shuffled through the documents, looking: oh, yes, Waverly. Waverly? Something like that-had hurled shrieked insults and threats at Ezra during his bail hearing. That should have been enough right there to deny him bail but the ADA at the arraignment didn't press it. And Waverly...Josiah was pretty sure it was Waverly...his attorney had passed it off as _"stress, shock, grief."_

That had been almost six months ago. Would someone really wait that long to go after the man he blamed for his cousin's death?

Josiah reached for the phone. He wanted to know where David Waverly was now.

"Josiah?"

Startled, the profiler looked up. Bobby Fewell stood in the doorway.

 _'Now that's the_ _ **last**_ _person I want to see right now.'_ "Can I help you, son?" he asked politely and, for Josiah, insincerely.

"This came by messenger, just now. I said I'd bring it up to you." Bobby held out a business-sized manila envelope. "JD around?"

"I imagine he's at the hospital." Josiah took the envelope, studying it. Just a plain brown envelope, with **"For ATF Team Seven"** written in black magic marker on the outside. A small red mark in the upper left hand corner indicated it had cleared security check in the lobby.

"I really need to talk to JD," Bobby said. "I called him on his cell but there wasn't any answer."

Josiah tore his eyes away from the envelope to meet the younger agent's sulky expression. "He turns off his phone when he's at the hospital," he pointed out patiently. "You can call over there. Ask for the fourth floor ICU. They'll find him."

There was dismissal in his tone but it didn't seem to phase Bobby. "Guess you heard," he said abruptly.

"Heard what?"

"I've been transferred." There was no mistaking the angry tone of voice.

"Oh?" Josiah asked carefully. "Well, that was always the plan, wasn't it?"

Bobby snorted. "You don't have to act so innocent. I was supposed to be in Denver for another couple of months. Now all of a sudden I'm being shipped off to Boise. _Boise!_ Most nothing post in the country! And it's all _his_ fault." Bobby jerked a scornful thumb towards Chris' office.

Josiah sighed. He should sit down with the boy; counsel with him, gently lead him to see the error of his ways.

Either that or knock the crap out of him.

But he was too tired and too worried-worried about important things: his brothers, Buck and Ezra-to waste any energy on one spoiled blue blood wanna-be agent.

Both of them looked up as the door flew open and Vin and Nathan came in. "Josiah, any-" Vin started, then he saw Bobby and his eyes narrowed. "You need somethin', Fewell?" his soft voice was cold.

Before Bobby could say anything, Josiah played peacemaker. "He just stopped in to see JD."

Vin was stressed and on edge and it showed. "Since JD ain't here maybe you ought to just be movin' on."

Bobby laughed bitterly. "Oh, I'm doing that all right." He stepped toward the door. "Good luck finding Standish. I've heard snakes can be pretty hard to locate once they've slithered off."

Nathan caught Vin by the collar as the sharpshooter stalked toward the invader. "Vin," he said warningly. "He's not worth it. And we need to focus on Ezra."

Vin stood still, his face dark with rarely-seen anger. Finally he nodded his head once, turning away and effectively dismissing Bobby from his mind. "What we got?"

Josiah waited until the door had softly snicked shut before he briefed his two friends on the search efforts. "They're blanketing the city, all the outlying areas. Civil Air Patrol's got planes searching a grid pattern up in the mountains and SAR has dogs in the foothills near Chris' ranch."

Silence. None of them said what they knew they were all thinking. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

"Anything in the files?" Nathan said finally, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Maybe," Josiah answered, remembering. He turned slightly to pick up the thick folder he'd been studying when Bobby had entered. Nathan took it from him and Vin leaned over his shoulder, studying the face sheet. "Curran? You thinking maybe the father?"

"Actually I was thinking his cousin. Remember? David something. He was pretty upset with Ezra, especially when Internal Affairs cleared him of any wrong doing in that shooting."

Nathan snorted. "Upset is a mild way to put it." He shook his head, leafing through the file. "That guy was just as dirty as his cousin. Can't _believe_ the DA didn't file charges."

"So we track down this David guy. What was it? Webber?"

"Think it was Waverly. Can't find it in the file."

"What's that?" Nathan asked, pointing to the envelope Josiah still clutched in his hand.

"Oh, this. Bobby brought it in. Said it was messengered over." Josiah reached over for Ezra's antique letter-opener and carefully slit the envelope as Nathan and Vin spread the file out on the desk in between them. "Guess the first place to start is at old man Curran's mansion..."

"Oh, God."

Nathan and Vin looked up at Josiah's whispered prayer. "Josiah? What is it?" Nathan stepped forward.

"It's a map."

Vin frowned. "A map of what?"

All three of them stared down at the single sheet of paper Josiah carefully laid on the desk. A hand drawn map of the mountains outside of Denver, with a large red X marked somewhere Vin mentally calculated to be about sixty miles from downtown. "But what-?"

Josiah carefully, almost reverently, with trembling hands, place the other item that had been in the envelope on the desk.

It was a Polaroid picture of Ezra Standish.

 _tbc…_


	23. Chapter 23

**Part 22  
**  
The _"Bomb Scare in Local Hospital!"_ story led the evening news. The too-tanned, too-blonde ex-beauty queen anchor on the local ABC affiliate sounded peeved it had only been a stink bomb. She did mention the device was secreted in a floral arrangement intended for a patient but that it was intercepted before it reached the patient and that only one minor injury had been incurred, by a local cop. _"Investigators announced they have several leads,"_ was how she ended the story.

Sarah Bryant used the remote to turn off the TV. She sat back in the one fairly comfortable chair in her miniscule living room, frowning. _Leads?_

The flowers were exotic, expensive...and it was possible, she supposed, that someone would recognize the arrangement as identical to one Buck Wilmington had received some days before. It wouldn't be difficult at all to find out they came from the exclusive Blossoms and Blooms shop in the pricey Aqua Bella section of Denver. But so what? She'd paid cash both times, worn oversized sunglasses that concealed her eyes and subtly distorted her facial features.

The materials used in the stink bomb were inexpensive and readily available at any number of novelty, craft or hobby stores around town. The knowledge wasn't specialized: she'd learned from a classmate in her high school Chem class.

Sending the nuisance gift had been an impulse, a vindictive urge arising from her hurt pride. She'd known at the time it wouldn't hurt Brian... _Buck,_ badly, even if it _had_ reached him. She'd just been lashing out.

She needed to be careful. Such stupid moves could prove her undoing.

Her uncle was dead, his operation in turmoil, but Sarah knew there were any number of people who would like to know _her_ whereabouts right now. Both the "bad guys" and the "good guys" would be after her for the same reason: what she knew or might know about her uncle's empire. The Feds would want her to help point fingers at his associates; said associates would be in fear that was exactly what she _would_ do.

Sarah wasn't stupid. She doubted there was anything she could be prosecuted for, but that didn't mean someone wouldn't try.

And her uncle's associates would probably just kill her.

She had been safe as long as her uncle was alive. Marcus Hoyt might have been an arrogant, tasteless, pretentious mobster pretending he was of genteel wealth, but he loved her. She was family. He might have been concerned about what she knew or guessed, but he would never have allowed any harm to come to her.

But now he was gone.

That was only just now truly starting to sink in...

She stared straight ahead, not seeing the tiny, cheaply furnished apartment that had been her refuge and her prison since her world had fallen apart, but instead seeing the opulent, expensive and totally vulgar mansion Marcus Hoyt had been so unjustly proud of. Specifically, the living room, all spiffed up and shining for a party...the night that Brian Jakes...Buck Wilmington...had walked into her life.

 _Sarah sipped her drink, schooling her face to mask the scornful amusement she felt as one of her uncle's "guests" nattered on about art. Art! The man's idea of Art was probably a portrait of a nude woman astride a tiger. On a black velvet canvas._

 _She wandered away, surveying her surroundings and trying not to shudder noticeably. While she had been away, her uncle had fancied himself a serious art collector: he'd obviously spent hundreds of thousands on the paintings and sculptures that now proudly adorned the rooms. Unfortunately her uncle's lack of taste and knowledge showed pitifully: the pieces that had taken his fancy were almost all overlarge, tasteless, gloomy works of the Victorian era, which clashed terribly with the-equally tasteless-but much more modern furnishings._

 _The doorbell sounded and she winced, wishing once again that she'd been able to talk Uncle Marcus out of installing the Westminster chimes to announce visitors. An air of excitement, of expectation, seemed to ripple through the room. Her uncle glanced at his watch. "That's Edward, I'm sure," he said, his voice pleased, somewhat excited._

 _Edward Steen. Her uncle had talked about him unceasingly since she'd arrived home from Europe, but this was the first time she'd actually meet the man. Her uncle had described him as "Cultured, knows all about art and music and that stuff. You'll enjoy talking to him."_

 _But, of course, her uncle hadn't invited Edward Steen just because he thought Sarah would enjoy a chat with a kindred spirit. Edward was connected to a rich, powerful family. Old South, her uncle kept saying. International connections. An alliance between her uncle and the people Edward represented would transform her uncle from a well to do but very localized "businessman", to someone of status, power. Someone whose name would be known all over the country, if not the world. A man to be respected, reckoned with._

 _Everything her uncle craved, so desperately desired._

 _One of her uncle's men went up the staircase to answer the door; her uncle followed, too impatient to meet and greet this so important guest to wait. Most of the guests were looking up, eager to catch a first glimpse of Steen but trying to conceal their interest under a thin veneer of blasé indifference._

 _The moment seemed frozen, forever. Sarah could sense everything around her: the too sweet perfume of her uncle's latest "lady friend"; the soft rustle of the maid's uniform as she circulated amongst the guests with her tray of canapes; the man from the caterer standing behind the lavish bar mixing a pitcher of martinis. She felt the silk of her simple sheath dress caressing her shoulders._

 _The mirrored doors that separated the large living room from the dining room were closed but she fancied she could still hear the clink of china and crystal as the housekeeper set the table. Farther back in the house, the Cordon Bleu chef her uncle had hired away from Antoine's in New Orleans would be laboring in a frenzy of joy, producing a meal that was a masterpiece of culinary delight. Such had been her uncle's orders. Everything that could be done to impress Edward Steen would be done._

 _Sarah looked up, craning for her first glimpse of Steen._

 _He was shorter than she'd expected, but well put together. He wore his expensive clothes as if he were born to them. Sarah stroked the silk skirt of her dress absently. No matter how much her uncle spent on his clothes, he always looked a little-wrong._

 _Not so Edward Steen. His expensive suit fit his body in a way that could only be the work of a top-notch tailor._

 _Then her eyes caught the man with him and she frankly stared. Tall, much taller than Steen. He too wore an expensive suit, which fit well but was as obviously off the rack—albeit an expensive rack- as Steen's was custom-made._

 _He was, quite simply, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen._

 _"Who_ _ **is**_ _that?" She hissed at the man standing next to her._

 _"Brian Jakes," Kurt whispered back. Well,_ _ **tried**_ _to whisper, which meant they could have heard him in the next county. "Bodyguard," he added. Kurt fulfilled a similar role in her uncle's employ._

 _Sarah barely heard him, watching as the little group started down the stairs. Brian Jakes looked over the entire room, his eyes scanning, seemingly alert for any signs of trouble. She noted how he subtly kept his body between Edward Steen and her uncle and his men._

 _And then Brian Jakes looked at her._

 _And his eyes widened in-_

Sarah gasped as she came back to herself. After all these weeks she'd seen, replaying in her mind, the first look Brian had given her had not been interest or even appreciation, but something else.

 _Something darker_.

Shock. And more. Fear? No. Horror.

 _What-?_

Sarah glanced at her watch. There was time. The library would be open for another two hours.

She grabbed her purse and coat and ran from the apartment.

 **7777777**

Chris almost laughed, would have laughed, damn it, if things hadn't been so bad. He was pacing one way around the waiting room, JD in the opposite direction. They passed each other twice each lap of the room. The few other people in the long room watched them nervously but didn't interfere. The poor pink-smocked volunteer had learned the hard way when she'd stepped in front of young Mr. Dunne to ask him if he wanted coffee.

Chris stopped, mesmerized by the view out the window. Golden late afternoon sun made exaggerated shadows of the ancient oak trees on the hospital grounds.

 _'Burnin' daylight.'_

It had been his grandfather's favorite expression, used to chide on his visiting grandson when the chores seemingly piled up. Chris remembered those bygone times with fondness, especially the summer he had brought Buck along with him. There on the ranch-with only a few men to take care of acres of farmland, cattle, and horses-Buck had seemed to tap into something deep in his soul, a source of peace. He'd told Chris once, _"I was born a hundred too years late. You were too, Cowboy. Can't you just see us in the Old West?"_

 _"Getting drunk and getting into fights, I suppose."_

Chris bought into his fantasy with a smile.

Now an echo of that smile crossed his face. Good times. He glanced at JD, still pacing. JD would be stunned if he knew just how long Buck and Chris had been friends. JD thought -well, all of the team thought - that they'd met when they were in the Denver police department together, when the truth was Buck and Chris had met the first day of their junior years in high school. They'd gone to different colleges, but stayed in touch, visited each other during the summer and holidays, and both made the decision to join the Navy after college.

The SEALs had actually been Buck's idea initially, but Chris had agreed enthusiastically.

 _Why_ they'd never corrected their friend's wrong assumption of the actual length of their friendship, rested in the dark shadows of Buck's past, not Chris'.

Although Chris did wonder sometimes why no one ever seemed to realize the truth.

His eyes studied the scene outside again, his mind calculating the time as efficiently as a clock.

 _Burnin' daylight._

Ezra was out there, somewhere, the chances finding him alive, or even finding him at all, lessening with every minute that passed.

 _If he was still alive…_

Chris shook his head. He had to be. _He had to be_. Chris wasn't going to allow it to be any other way. Any more than he was going to allow Buck to slip away from them.

To lose either of them would destroy Chris. He knew that. Knew it simply as the truth. He'd managed to survive, barely, losing his wife and son. Only because Buck had snatched him away from the cliff he was trying to throw himself from, snatched him and held him and kept him safe, until Chris saw a reason to keep himself alive. The Team. He had the team.

And he wasn't going to lose any of them now.

"Chris?"

He turned, startled. He hadn't heard JD step up beside him, hadn't noticed the younger man had stopped pacing.

JD's stared out the window, but Chris knew he wasn't really seeing anything. The younger man's arms were tightly crossed around his body. "He's going to be okay, right, Chris?" The younger man's voice was pleading. "He's okay. I mean...they'd have come out and told us if he...if he...he's okay, right?"

For the first time in days, JD's eyes were not filled with fire and disgust as they appraised Chris, but were dark with fear. He desperately needed something from Chris, some encouragement that his best friend, big brother, was going to make it.

Chris cleared his throat. Truth be told, he didn't know what to say, only knew he had to say _something_. But before he could speak he heard someone calling his name.

Both men turned, to see a nurse beckoning at them. As they walked closer she said, "Dr. Culver wants to speak to you right away-"

Behind her, the door to ICU burst open. People spilled out, lots of people, all dressed in scrubs and pushing one of the awkward hospital beds between them. Others pulled IV poles behind as they raced alongside, yelling out incomprehensible gibberish.

Chris felt JD move and grabbed his arm before the younger man could leap in front of the crowd. JD tore loose with an angry snarl, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Damn it! Let me go! That's Buck! Where are they taking him?"

Someone yelled out "To Surgery!"

JD froze. He looked back at Chris with pleading eyes. "Surgery?" he repeated in a tiny voice. His hands dropped limply to his sides; he stood still as the group surrounding Buck accelerated their path to the elevators.

"Chris. JD."

They both turned to see Dr. Culver standing behind them, looking worn and tired. "I'm sorry," he said, indicating the crowd now disappearing into an elevator. "I wanted to explain to you what's going on, but I was detained by a phone call-"

"Why's Buck going to surgery?" JD interrupted the older man to demand. Automatically Chris put a hand on his shoulder, not sure whether he was giving support or getting it.

One good thing about Culver, he didn't beat around the bush. "His blood pressure is dropping rapidly-he started to choke and when we pulled out the ventilator tube there was fresh blood in it. He's bleeding internally and I suspect it's from one or both lungs."

JD shook his head, dazed. "But...but surgery...he's so weak already. And what about the poison?"

"I'm guessing the poison is what's causing the hemorrhaging."

"Can Buck survive the surgery, Doc?" Chris could barely recognize his own voice.

Culver took a deep breath. "He's got the best surgeon in the hospital attending him. I don't know what else to tell you, Chris. His chances aren't good but he has _no_ chance at all of surviving if that bleeding isn't stopped."

Chris didn't know what to say. His throat was too dry for him to make a sound anyway. _'Damn it Buck. Don't you dare die on me, you son of a bitch!'_

He must have nodded, or something, or maybe Culver just took his consent for granted. The doctor's beeper sounded - too loud and shrill in the sudden hush - and Culver said something as he moved away. Chris had absolutely no idea what he'd said.

He just stood there, staring down the hallway. His knees felt like rubber and his head seemed to be bobbing on the ceiling. Vaguely he realized he needed to sit down but his feet wouldn't move. He couldn't move. He had to keep looking after Buck.

"Chris. Chris? _CHRIS!"_

It took three repetitions of his name, the last one accompanied by a frantic shaking of his arm, before Chris came out of his trance. He looked around, confused. JD was standing there, eyes wide and terrified and face parchment-white.

"Chris? Are you okay?" JD let go of his arm but hovered as if he expected Chris to fall over any second. "Maybe you should sit down?"

"I'm fine," Chris managed to reply through numb lips.

"You sure? You don't look good."

Sarcastic words rose to Chris' lips but he bit them back with an effort. Fortunately JD didn't say anything else. He himself looked as if he were going to fall over at any second. "JD...uh...I've got to go look for Ezra. Will you be okay-"

 _"Chris Larabee, please dial the Operator. Visitor Chris Larabee please dial the Operator."_

Chris blinked, looked around and spotted the phone on the wall. He raised his hand, then clenched his fist quickly to stop the shaking before he punched the number. The hospital operator's voice sounded tinny and far away as she asked him to stand by for a call.

 _"Chris?"_

"Vin? What's going on?"

There was a lot of background noise; Vin was almost shouting and Chris could tell he was in a car. _"Chris! Someone faxed a map to the federal building - some place up in the mountains, close to the old Silver Falls ski resort. Think Ezra might be there. His picture is on the fax."_

"What-" Chris couldn't seem to get his mind together. He took a deep breath, held it, forced his thoughts into some kind of order. "Where are you now?"

 _"We alerted everyone and now we're on our way to the staging point...you know where the old railroad track crosses 671? 'Bout twenty miles off the interstate?"_

"Yeah, I know it." Chris' voice lacked its usual snap. He had to clear it again. "I'll meet you there." He hung up the phone before Vin could say anything else. JD was right there, hovering at his elbow, and Chris knew he'd heard most of the conversation. "I've got to go, JD. You stay-"

"I'm going with you."

That was the last thing Chris expected him to say. He stopped dead, staring at the younger man.

JD's face was absolutely colorless but his voice was firm as he repeated, "I'm going with you. It's what...it's what..." He took a deep breath. "Buck would expect us both to go after Ezra."

Chris had already opened his mouth to order JD to stay put, but what the kid said hit a nerve. Buck _would_ expect that, damn him. And if... _when_ he could talk again there'd be hell to pay if he ever found out otherwise.

Chris met JD's eyes. "Let's go."

 **7777777**

Monica Hastings hummed along with her CD player as she worked. She'd deny it if confronted, but she did her best work to music. Well, she thought of it as music, at least. Other people called it other things. But Monica didn't care. She'd made some of her biggest breakthroughs while listening to disco over and over.

The labs were empty except for a few techs in one corner, doing final checks on T27. Monica frowned. FDA approval should have been granted to the drug already, but the fact that a federal agent had been poisoned by it had set things back by weeks. Now the FDA wanted a last round of fail-safe tests. Monica shook her head. As much as she hated it, she had to admit David was right. Using her own drug to try to kill Ezra Standish had _not_ been her brightest move.

Now, as the CD player relentlessly chugged out ABBA's _Dancing Queen_ , Monica clicked the key on her computer to enter the last of her data on the unknown chemical compound killing Buck Wilmington. She blinked, then closed her eyes tightly and looked again.

The results didn't change.

"Shit," she said out loud, a rare curse from her. _'I must have made a mistake somewhere, entered something wrong. No way could it be_ _ **that**_ _easy.'_

After thinking for a minute, she went over to the CD player and silenced ABBA in the shrillest part of their chorus. _This_ required the big guns. From her leather satchel she retrieved the two CDs she reserved for heavy problems. The soundtracks from _Saturday Night Fever_ and _Car Wash_.

This might turn out to be an all-nighter after all.

 **7777777**

Sarah Bryant yawned, discretely sipped from the thermos of coffee she'd smuggled in her over-sized bag. Not that anyone was around. This late in the day, very few people frequented the basement of the public library.

She'd used the computer's search function to pull up any articles in the local papers that mentioned Buck Wilmington, and, after a second thought, Christopher Larabee. She'd learned the two had been partners in the Denver PD, friends for a long time. Maybe...

She'd run into a wall though-only the past five years of articles were available on computer; older than that she'd have to resort to the microfiche machine. Her eyes burned and her head throbbed from staring at the fuzzy images and stark white words on black background. She'd started at the present and worked backwards, so far not finding out anything she hadn't already known or guessed.

She consulted her notes and pulled a fresh canister of microfiche into the reader. Quickly she flipped through with a practiced hand until she neared the article in question. The headline came to life on the tiny screen.

 ** _"LOCAL COP'S WIFE, SON, SLAIN IN CAR BOMBING"._**

She paged down, quickly realizing the wife and son were Larabee's, not Buck's. Buck's name was mentioned in the article as being Chris Larabee's partner who was with him in Colorado Springs the day of the bombing. In spite of herself Sarah was interested in the story. She paged down again and a blurry picture came into view, captioned as a recent photo of Sarah Larabee with her husband and his partner. Reaching for the back dial she tried to sharpen the image.

She recognized Buck first, looking younger and devil-may-care. Chris Larabee next to Buck-the photo was taken at some awards banquet-with his wife in the middle. As the focus sharpened a fire started in Sarah's gut, a strangled scream wrenched from her throat.

She was looking at a face that could have been her own.

 _tbc..._


	24. Chapter 24

**Part 23  
**  
The tiny clearing Vin had referred to was crowded with official vehicles, more arriving every minute. The lean sharpshooter took one look and shook his head. "This ain't gonna work."

"The more help the better," Nathan protested.

"Not unless the 'help' can climb and rappel," Vin said dryly. He pointed up the mountain. "'Bout halfway up there-long before the cabin-the mountain's cleared. That's where the ski run used to be. Goin' by this," he pointed to the two maps on his lap, the faxed piece of paper and a Forest Service map of the region, "anybody in that cabin would have a clear view. He could kill Ez, open fire on us, and we'd have no cover at all."

Nathan and Josiah were quiet, but both were thinking the same thing. _'He could kill Ezra or maybe Ezra's already dead.'_

"Any other options?" Josiah finally asked.

"A couple possibilities." Vin moved his finger on the map. "West of the cabin there's a sheer rock face...probably fifty feet. Maybe more. Someone-a couple of people- could traverse up that way." He looked out the window at the late afternoon sunshine, slowly shaking his head. "Don't think we'll have enough light, though. It'd be suicide to do it after dark."

That didn't mean Vin _wouldn't_ try it, after dark, if another way couldn't be found. Nathan and Josiah understood that, and as much as they were probably the most cautious members of the team, they'd be right along if Vin - and by extension Chris - determined that was the way to go.

Vin was frowning down at the map. "There's a path up here - south of the cabin, see? Might have been the old supply road. That might be the best way. We'd have to hike in though - too much chance someone could hear engines before we got there." Even as he said it his eyes narrowed, his finger tracing the lines denoting the sheer drop-off to the west.

"What're you thinking?" Nathan asked.

"Um, brothers," Josiah interrupted, his eyes watching the rear-view mirror, "I think the situation just got worse."

"How the hell could it get-" Nathan and Vin turned.

"Damn!" Nathan swore.

"Who the _hell_ thought sending Bobby Fewell in to rescue Ezra was a good idea?" Josiah demanded of the heavens.

The young agent jumped out of the driver's seat of the gray Agency vehicle, quickly opening the back door. After several seconds, AAD Montgomery gingerly stepped out, using his cane for balance. He said something to Bobby and the younger man reached into the driver's side window to sound the horn in several long beeps.

"What is he doing-?" Josiah started.

Vin leapt out of the vehicle, storming down to grab Fewell and yank him back. Josiah and Nathan shared a look, then scrambled to follow their angry friend.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Fewell?" Vin barked.

 _'Vin's starting to sound a lot like Chris,'_ Nathan thought dizzily. He noticed all the searchers were starting to drift closer.

"Take your hands off him, Agent Tanner. He was following _my_ instructions." Montgomery coolly eyed Vin.

"Your idea to alert everybody up there?"

"No," Montgomery said evenly. "I need him to gather together all personnel so I can issue assignments in this rescue mission, in order to secure _your_ missing teammate, Agent."

Vin's eyes shot blue fire. "Assignments?"

"Yes." Montgomery tapped his silver-headed cane in the dirt at his feet. "I'm assuming command of this operation."

The three members of Team Seven exchanged shocked glances. Ryan Kelly of Team Eight cleared his throat, but before anyone could say anything, an ice-cold voice cut through the sudden silence.

"Like _hell_ you are," Chris Larabee growled.

 **7777777**

"Pressure's still dropping, doctor."

Daniel Kruse - the surgeon currently engaged in trying to save the life of Buck Wilmington - was annoyed. No, make that he was pissed. _Majorly_ pissed.

Tall, tanned, blond and blue-eyed, Kruse looked younger than his thirty-six years. He'd spent his entire life - including med school, internship and residency - in Southern California, never more than ten minutes from a beach and his surfboard.

What had lured him from a prestigious appointment at Long Beach Medical Center and persuaded him to give up surfboard for snowboard was the chance to work with Dr. Culver at his famed Trauma Center.

Now, going into the second hour of surgery, Kruse wasn't so sure that had been one of his brighter moves. Buck Wilmington's lung tissue was as brittle as parchment. Sutures weren't holding, and with every minute on the table he lost a little ground.

Kruse had done the initial surgery on Wilmington, but after three or four follow-up visits he'd turned post-surgical care over to the resident and the orthopedic department. Kruse didn't listen much to hospital gossip - not that there _was_ much at University; Culver enforced a strict anti-gossip rule - so Kruse didn't know anything about the agent being poisoned until he scrubbed in for the emergency surgery.

"Pressure dropping," the nurse intoned. Kruse wanted to yell at her, to snap, _"Of course his pressure's dropping; have you been watching this damn operation or sending out for pizza?"  
_  
He didn't, but more because he couldn't spare the energy right now. Another nurse mopped his forehead. He heard someone else order another bag of plasma.

"This isn't working," Kruse said. His eyes met those of the Chief Resident - one of the most brilliant natural surgeons Kruse had ever met.

Brilliant, but inexperienced: Kruse could tell from the look in his eyes the younger man didn't have a clue what to do.

Kruse took a deep breath. "Okay, everybody," he said, infusing as much confidence as he could into his voice. He was rewarded by seeing shoulders straighten, eyes light up over the concealing surgical masks. _'There's more to surgery than just wielding the knife,'_ one of his professors had always said.

His grandpa had another way of putting it.

 _"When in doubt, punt."_

 **7777777**

Tension snapped, cracked in the cooling mountain air. Slowly, relentlessly, the sun dropped closer and closer to the surrounding mountains.

They were losing light.

They were losing time.

Montgomery broke the tense silence first. He cleared his throat, the noise sounding like a gunshot in the leaden silence. "Agent Larabee-"

"That's Special Agent _In Charge_ Larabee." Chris' voice was quiet, barely loud enough to be heard by those standing closely, but the emphasis on the "in charge" couldn't be missed. Behind him, JD's slight form could barely be seen.

Montgomery paled, then turned red.

"As the ranking agent-"

Chris stepped closer, breaking into the older man's speech as well as his personal space. "Before you say one more thing, Assistant AD Montgomery, I think we should talk." He indicated one of the heavy tactical vans. "Privately."

The AAD hesitated, then, pulling the shreds of his ruffled dignity around him like a cloak, preceded Chris to the van. Both Vin and Josiah moved to follow him, but Chris shook his head. "Start working out a plan," he said, looking up into the sky. "We don't have a hell of a lot of time left."

Vin caught a glimpse of Montgomery's face as he stepped into the van. It was dark with rage.

"What're you doing' here, JD? How's Buck?" Nathan asked anxiously.

"He-" JD had to stop and clear his throat. His teammates took in his parchment white face and blazing eyes and exchanged looks of concern. "He's in surgery," JD finally blurted out. "His lung tissue...I guess it's just falling apart. They had to pull the tube out and..." he shrugged.

The seemingly careless movement didn't fool anybody. "Maybe you should have stayed," Nathan said gently. He was startled when Vin shot a fiery glare in his direction.

 _'Leave the kid there all alone when his big brother dies? Fuck that, Nathan.'_ Vin looked up into the darkening sky. "Hang in there, Bucklin," he said aloud. "We'll be back there as quick as we can- _with_ Ez. You just hang on."

"Amen," Josiah rumbled.

Two Forest Service jeeps screeched to a halt, the drivers jumping out. Ignoring them, Josiah stared up the mountain in turn. "We could use an eye in the sky," he said wistfully.

"Send up a helicopter now and you'll have that guy running scared. Not to mention you'd be endangering Standish's life," someone protested.

The four men from Team Seven nodded. "We may have to risk it," Nathan said hesitantly.

"Don't think you will." One of the Forestry guys had interjected himself into the conversation. He held up a thick manila envelope. "I've got your eye in the sky right here."

 **7777777**

Monica Hastings ignored the melodic ringing of her cell phone, her whole attention focused on the equipment in front of her. She ran one pink-tipped finger down the lines of a thick computer printout, then rechecked her calculations by scribbling in her own shorthand on a long yellow tablet.

She kept coming to the same conclusion. The same answer.

But it just couldn't be _that_ easy.

Leaning back on her high stool, she stretched, knotted back muscles easing immediately. She glanced around. Time stood still in the windowless laboratory. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was just past four in the afternoon. The labs were deserted, with the exception of herself and one other person, From what she could see he was cleaning up, preparing for the end of the day.

It didn't surprise her that the laboratory was deserted this early. Riverside Pharmaceuticals prided itself on allowing employees flexible schedules - allowing them to work when _they_ felt most efficient, productive, creative. It had been one of the things the FDA had cited in their investigation of the stolen T-27, but Monica had flatly refused to change that policy no matter what Nina had said. Her cousin had finally tossed up her hands in defeat and produced a protocol that _looked_ more rigid even if it really was not.

"Hey Nic, I'm ready to clear out for the night. You ready to leave or should I just lock you in?"

She looked up, exchanging smiles with Javier Gonzalez - _Ha-V_ as everyone called him. Gonzalez was good, one of her top techs. He could be making good money - she paid well but there was no way she could equal the salaries of the big companies, at least not at _this_ point - but he didn't have much initiative. Give him a problem, though, and he was like a pit bull trying to solve it.

"Can you check this for me?"

The request wasn't unusual - it was a stupid scientist indeed that didn't have someone check her work. It was Ha-V's main function in the lab.

"Sure thing." He dropped the eye-catching blue velvet coat he'd been ready to don onto another bench. She rolled her eyes as he hitched up his tight leather pants to get up on the stool. Ha-V was no doubt heading out for some recreation at his favorite gay bar or club for the evening.

He glanced at the screen, then down at her notes, frowning. "What is this?" he asked. "Doesn't look like anything we're working on."

"It's not. I'm doing a...favor, for a friend. Have you heard about the ATF agent in University?"

"The one that got poisoned with a breathing treatment? Yeah, I've heard. And they had the balls to say _our_ security was lax! So you know one of the lab guys over there or what?"

She didn't answer - didn't have to - Ha-V was already concentrating on the screen and wouldn't have paid attention to her anyway.

Monica glanced around the room, once again feeling the glow of possession, almost a maternal love, that she felt to every time she remembered this was _her_ place, her labs, her company. Riverside Pharmaceuticals fulfilled a dream she'd held tightly in her heart as long as she could remember - a dream treasured, taken out sometimes and smiled over, then carefully hidden away again - for the long years of her training and education. A dream she'd never thought possible, even when she'd entered college at sixteen, earned two doctorates with highest honors, and been the recipient of every award possible.

She'd had seven job offers immediately - four of them from the biggest pharmaceutical concerns in the world. Even though a part of her longed to accept one of those, to be affiliated with those names, she'd politely turned down all of them. Big, faceless corporations didn't assign brand new employees to head research teams, no matter how gifted the employee was. And that was her goal: to lead her own team, make a name for herself quickly. With that in mind, she accepted a job at a smaller firm, small but of impeccable reputation, signed a three-year contract and moved to Cascade, Washington, ninety miles north of Seattle.

It rained even more in Cascade than it had in Denver. Monica worked twelve to eighteen hour days and loved every minute of it. Still, when her three years were up she knew it was time to move on. She used the excuse that Cascade was just too dangerous a place for a single woman - seemed like someone blew up a building every week - and she left with the company's promise of another job any time she wanted.

Again the big-name firms came sniffing around; again she turned them down. Moving one hundred fifty miles south, to Seacouver, she went to work for Pacific Northwest Pharmaceuticals, immediately heading up a team developing a new drug for juvenile asthmatics.

Seacouver was a pretty dull place, compared to Cascade (although there seemed to be an inordinate number of headless bodies that turned up periodically) but Monica was there to work, not socialize.

She'd probably still be doing that, switching companies every couple of years as they made better offers, saving lives and making millions for the employers with her genius, if her uncle hadn't decided she'd belonged back in Denver with the family. He offered her the one thing she wanted - her own lab, her own company - years before she could have realistically expected it.

She'd been so worried lately. She might fancy herself independent from Arthur Curran, but her uncle had provided the start-up money; his friends sat on the Board of Directors. But Nina had done some fancy shuffling with the books and the company charter, and now the US Government would never be able to prove Riverside Pharmaceuticals had _ever_ derived financial support from Curran. Anyone looking at the books now would see a loan to a favored niece, an initial loan immediately paid back as soon as said niece came into her own trust fund. That the trust had initially been set up by her uncle meant nothing - his own people had hidden that years ago.

"Nic?"

"Finished with it?" she asked. Probably. Ha-V was fast, smart and thorough.

If he would just buy some tasteful clothing...

"You called it, Boss," the tech replied cheerfully. "Those guys over at University must have their heads up their asses...not that it would be a bad idea, with some of them," he leered. "But how the hell did this get into Denver?"

Monica bestowed a rare smile on him as she reached for the phone. "Figuring that out isn't _our_ problem," she pointed out. "Download everything and get ready to fax it to University Lab. I wouldn't trust the morons to get it in an email." She paused, and then said, "Take another fifteen minutes and point them to the antidote. My uncle used to say, if you're doing a favor, make it a _BIG_ one. That way they owe you more!"

 **7777777**

JD walked quickly, trying to tread lightly. The crunch of his borrowed boots in the crusty snow seemed horribly loud, dangerously loud in his own ears, but no one else seemed to notice. Three yards ahead of him, Nathan slipped and for a second JD was sure he'd fall. He clenched his muscles, took a larger step - he'd have to catch Nathan before he went off the path altogether and over the steep incline - but Nathan regained his balance. After a scant few moments to catch his breath, Jackson gestured at JD and took another step. Carefully, lightly, JD took another step in turn. Always nine feet behind Jackson, nine feet ahead of the other guy - he didn't know his name, someone from the Forestry Service. Never look up to the top of the mountain, or toward the cabin hidden in the shadows on the bluff. Never to look over, to see the sheer cliff walls falling away from solid ground just inches from his feet.

JD shivered, pulling his borrowed jacket closer around his body. The jacket, like the boots, was too large, donated by one of the Forestry Service guys who had recently shown up to assist in the rescue.

His mind drifted back ten minutes. Everyone had tried to crowd into the tactical van behind the "Smokejumper" as JD had heard one of the sheriff deputies call the guys in the Forest Service jeep. The guys who had the answer to getting to Ezra, as it turned out...

~~~~~  
 _The air was still singed with the words exchanged by Larabee and Montgomery. The two of them stood at opposite sides of the table, both with arms crossed in front of their bodies. "I outrank you, Larabee," Montgomery hissed. "This conversation is over!"_

 _"This isn't a_ _ **conversation**_ _and it never started." Chris' voice was low and cold, colder than even when he'd faced the worst criminals._

 _JD shivered. He'd used his smaller size to slither in behind the Smokejumper. Vin was here too but Nathan and Josiah were caught in the throng outside. Then JD saw Bobby. He'd apparently been in the van all the time and sat in the driver's seat but swung around so he could watch what was going on. His eyes narrowed when he saw the influx of newcomers. "Sir!"_

 _He was probably trying to get Montgomery's attention but he got Larabee's first. The Team Seven leader made eye contact with Vin first, then nodded and swung around to the Smokejumper. "You have pictures?"_

 _Try as he might, JD couldn't figure out how Chris had known that, but the Smokejumper did, indeed, have pictures. Lots of them, taken from the air, taken over the last week, with the majority of the glossy shots covering the last forty-eight hours. The time Ezra_ _had been missing._

 _"One of our pilots noticed some activity going on around here awhile back," the biggest and oldest of the Forestry Service guys said, pointing to one of the pictures. "Greenish Jeep Cherokee parked here, movement around the old cabin, a little clearing on the access road. Stuff like that. Even saw a Mustang up here once, not all the way up but to the control tower." He pointed to another picture, an aerial shot of the ski slope side of the mountain with a late model white Mustang. "Don't know_ _ **how**_ _the guy got that up there - he must be one hell of a driver or he's not overly fond of his engine._

 _"You have to know Stan - Lewis, that's the pilot - for this to make any sense. He lives up here year-round, doesn't really have much of a life outside the job. And he's one hell of a pilot-plane or copter, doesn't matter. He - well you don't want all the details - but this is his life...his territory. He got kind of nosy as to what was going on. This area was leased out years ago to some corporation. Stan started looking and figured out the corporation was an empty shell. Then he got_ _ **real**_ _interested in what was happening."_

 _"Excuse me, but what does any of this have to do with Standish?" Bobby Fewell broke in impatiently._

 _"Shut up, Fewell." Chris' voice was about as warm as liquid nitrogen. He nodded at the Forestry guy. "Go on."  
_  
 _The ranger hesitated, but one look at Chris' piercing green gaze and he gulped, then went on. "Stan wanted to know who was messing around up here. The lease was no help, but about fifteen months ago the Service issued a burn permit for this area to a Steven Curran."_

 _The name was familiar to the ATF agents and they all looked at each other even as the ranger went on to say, "The Jeep Cherokee is registered to Steven Curran."_

 _"Steven Curran is dead." JD didn't know who said it but everyone seemed to nod in response._

 _The ranger grinned. "Well I assume you all'd know about that." From the look on his face it was obvious he had discovered just_ _ **how**_ _Curran had met his demise. He pointed to the Mustang, then plopped another picture down. It was a close up of the same shot - with the license plate clearly visible._

 _"JD!" Chris snapped. "Run this plate-"_

 _"Already taken care of," the ranger interrupted. He smiled at the stunned looks on the ATF agents' faces. "Like I said, Stan wanted to know - and he has a lot of friends in some rather interesting places. Anyway, the Mustang is registered to a David Wyerly. Denver address."  
_  
 _"David Wyerly..." The name was familiar but JD couldn't quite place it. He heard a sudden intake of breath and looked up to see Vin's eyes darken. He didn't say anything though, and Nathan suddenly snapped his fingers._

 _"Wyerly. That's - isn't that the name of that lawyer? Monica Hastings' cousin? The one we met at the labs that day?"_

 _JD felt cold chills at hearing Monica Hastings' name. Seemed like every time he turned around, there she was - his thoughts scattered at Chris' next words._

 _Chris looked at Vin, then back at Nathan. "Don't know about the lawyer," he said quietly. "But there_ _ **was**_ _a Wyerly involved in the Curran case. Remember? David Wyerly is Arthur Curran's nephew - -and Steven Curran's cousin."_

 **7777777**

"Damn, I can't believe how stupid we've been."

JD didn't mean to say it out loud, but the voice that came over the small comm unit in his ear indicated that he had. _"Keep it quiet, JD,"_ Bobby Fewell's voice ordered. _"You're too close to the cabin to make noise now."_

JD flushed. Nathan glanced back at him but the shadows were too thick to see his expression. Bobby was on radio duty. The thought that that would have normally been his or Buck's position was just one more thing to churn in JD's stomach.

Although he'd reprimanded JD, Bobby didn't seem to see any need to stop talking himself. _"I can't see how this cockamamie plan is going to work. No pilot can be that good."  
_  
 _"Lewis is!"_ JD didn't know the voice. Had to be one of the Forestry guys.

A snort. _"Right. Larabee must be nuts risking his life on that copter."_ Bobby's voice dropped and JD couldn't tell if they were supposed to hear. _"For Standish of all people."_

JD could see Nathan's head jerk up, and heard a hiss in his ear that _had_ to be Vin Tanner. Before anyone else could say anything, a voice of authority broke through. _"Next one of you yahoos that opens their mouth gets five days suspension. Unpaid. Or does no one remember the concept of 'radio silence'?"_

It was Ryan Kelly, leader of Team Eight. He didn't do _pissed_ as well as Chris Larabee, but there was no doubt he'd carry through with his threat. Or maybe just let Chris kill the next hapless speaker. JD felt his cheeks burn as he remembered that Chris couldn't talk to them, but he could no doubt hear everything said over the chopper band. Then he shook his head angrily. _'What do I care what Chris Larabee thinks?'_

That was the thing though, he _did_ care. Even through his anger and his hurt and the deep, gnawing fear that had been decimating his insides ever since the explosion that had almost killed Buck, Chris was still his friend. His boss. JD had a job to do and Ezra's life might depend on how well he could do it.

Always assuming Ezra wasn't already dead.

His mind shied away from the thought, shied away from the idea that Ezra might be dead, already, and that nothing they could do would save him. Just like nothing they could do could help Buck...

Pain wrenched through him again.

 _'Please God,'_ he prayed silently. _'Please. Don't let either one of them die. I need them, God...I don't know where the hell all this is going but I need them both.'_

 **7777777**

Twelve miles away as the crow-or the helicopter-flies, a signal was given and a helicopter rose from the landing pad and gracefully turned, streaking toward its target. Inside, Chris Larabee sat in the co-pilot's seat. Stan Lewis, the Forestry Service pilot he'd heard so much about, was next to him. Chris hoped to hell this guy was as good as his friends seemed to think he was. The pilot hadn't even twitched an eyelash when Chris had described what they needed, just nodded his head, said, _"You coming along?"_ and walked out to his bird. Taking a long look at the wall of the man's cabin-a wall decorated with pictures and medals and commendations going back thirty years-Chris followed.

Lewis was about Josiah's age but shorter, sturdy, with a wild mane of graying brown hair he'd ruthlessly pulled back into a tight ponytail. His hands rested on the controls with the familiarity of long sho.

His lips quirked when he, like Chris, listened to the verbal exchange over the headsets. Lewis seemed to find it amusing. Chris didn't; he wasn't sure who he was more pissed at, JD for starting it or Bobby Fewell for continuing it. Thank God Ryan Kelly had shut them down. JD honestly knew better, but the kid wasn't thinking clearly right now. Chris had strongly debated pulling him out of the mission altogether, sending him back to the hospital to be with Buck, but Vin had talked him out of it. _"JD's hurting,"_ the lean Texan had agreed. _"But he's part of the team, Chris. He has to be here. You pull him out now and he'll never get over feelin' you don't trust him."_

Vin was right, and Chris admitted that if just to himself. But there was another reason Chris had hesitated about sending JD back. If the worst happened, if Buck didn't make it, Chris didn't want JD to be at that hospital all alone.

 _'But you left Buck alone,'_ a nasty little voice reminded him.

Alone, the way Sarah and Adam had been that last day...

 _'Damn it, don't go there. Not now. Keep your mind on Ezra...'_

The pilot's voice crackled through the headphones. _"Hang on to your stomach, Larabee. It's showtime!"  
_  
The copter dropped like a stone.

 **7777777**

Vin shifted his weight on the limb of the tree he rested upon. Climbing the majestic thing had been more than a little difficult – fresh abrasions on his legs oozed blood to freeze in the chill air.

Spring in Denver had given way to a late-Winter lashing, and the storm was drawing closer by the minute. Vin just hoped they had enough time. Enough time to get Ezra out of the cabin.

If Ezra was actually _in_ the cabin. If Ezra just wasn't already dead and his body dumped somewhere.

Unlike JD, Vin's mind couldn't shy away from that thought. It was possible. Hell it was more than possible, it was probable. How long had Ezra been in this nutcase's hands? A full twenty-four hours. Maybe longer. One day didn't seem that long most of the time, but when a friend...more than a friend, _family_ \- was gone missing and going through what kind of hell with a guy who could be anything: from white collar criminal to psychopathic killer to revenge seeking lunatic...

His gloved hands clenched around his weapon. Pushing everything else away, he focused through the scope, a straight shot, if only the wind didn't strengthen, on the half-shuttered window on the near side of the cabin.

Elsewhere two other snipers were focusing on equally small targets, hopeful of lobbing some tear gas into the building. Nathan had argued against the idea; so had other paramedics but in the long run it was less dangerous than a full-on assault on a man with a hostage in a small cabin, and they all knew it.

Vin, though, wasn't loaded with tear gas. Vin was looking for, would take it if he could, a kill shot.

He heard the slight crackle of static in his ear, and then the word, the simple word that said it all.

 _"GO!"_


	25. Chapter 25

**Part 24**

Ezra stirred, consciousness flooding back, as hard as he tried to stop it. Slipping into the darkness was better, easier. The darkness was quiet and warm and safe. Reality was cold and terrifying, lanced with the agony of too many wounds, too many injuries.

 _How long had it been?_ Ezra wondered. Days or weeks, or merely hours? He remembered what had happened, being on the road near Chris' place, but he couldn't remember _why_ he had been there or even what day. Fuzzily, as if through the bottom of an old Coke bottle, he could see the smoke billowing from the car, see another car, a white Mustang, parked on the other side of the road. And then the man, coming to help him, he had thought.

 _'Fool, you stupid fool!'_ he railed at himself, unaware if he could actually say the words or not. Wherever had he come by this inane belief that someone would actually come to _save_ him? That went against _all_ of Maude Standish's teachings, everything she had taught her baby boy to survive and prosper in the world.

But he had turned away from his mother's teachings, hadn't he? Slapped her in the face and smote her breast, as she said sometimes when she was over-emoting about the situation. Chosen a career in _law enforcement_ \- not only a reckless and potentially suicidal move but also one in which the expectation of financial recoup was notoriously small.

And there had been a time, when, battered and blistered and thrown to the wolves by his former "brothers" in the FBI, that Ezra had believed her, and acknowledged, in his heart if not by voice, that she was right. No one cared about him enough to stand up for him, no one ever would. Why should they? He wasn't worth it.

But then something had happened to change that. He'd ended up in Denver, in the company of men who weren't refined, weren't affluent, cultured, or even particularly _polite_ \- but who _cared_ about _him_. First just because he was one of them, and later because of who he was, and because he was their brother.

At thirty years old, Ezra found himself a member of a family. Maybe not the kind of family the average American thought of - a laugh caught in Ezra's burning throat as he visualized Chris Larabee in a gray flannel suit and hat, smoking a pipe while throwing out a ball so that "little brothers" Vin and JD could practice batting. And was that Mr. Wilmington there, in a ballooning blue skirt, discreet pearls and heels, doing the vacuuming? No - Buck Wilmington was more like the protective older brother who came home from college on the weekends wearing a letterman's jacket and went out to scare all the bullies in the neighborhood away from his brothers.

That would make Nathan the mother figure. He sure could nag like one, especially when he was promoting safety and good health. Besides, his legs looked better in high heels.

But then whom would that make Josiah? Grandfather, uncle? Crazy second cousin locked up in the attic?

 _Really, Ezra, your mind is wandering. Pull yourself together - think about getting out of this mess._

He really had no doubts his friends would come. They would, he knew, turn Denver, Colorado, the whole planet, upside down and shake until he was back amongst them.

 _"But will they get here in time?"_ That annoying voice in his head that sounded much too much like Maude asked the question in triumph.

Time. Time. How much time? How long had he been here - wherever here was? How much longer did he have?

"Hey there, Mr. ATF agent." The voice of his captor swirled around his ears, pushing away the darkness.

 _No!_ Ezra fought, turning his head away, trying to hang onto the shreds of his blackness. But it was too late, harsh words and frigid air swirled in, pushing back the curtains of warmth and safety.

He opened his eyes, bracing himself for the shrieking torrent of pain that had overwhelmed him every time he'd come back to consciousness. But the pain was less now, muted. _'That's a good thing,'_ Ezra thought, relieved, even though, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could almost hear Nathan saying it wasn't such a _good thing_ after all. And had it gotten warmer in here? He didn't seem to be feeling the cold so much...maybe his captor, Steven...no, Steven was the one he'd killed. This was Daniel...no David...that's right, David Wyerly. That name was so familiar...his mind drifted off as the blackness neared again.

"No!" It was a demon shriek. "I know you're awake, Fed. Open your damn eyes!"

"And to think I always had you pegged as the weak sniveling also-ran," Ezra muttered, forcing his eyes open. Burning light from the lantern nearby seared through them like hot tongs.

He was repaid for his words by a hard kick to the solar plexus.

"That's what you thought, huh?" Wyerly ranted as Ezra tried desperately to drag in oxygen to his lungs.

"That's...what I thought-" Ezra wheezed. "That's what I - still think. You – voided your bladder - as your - cousin lay...bleeding to death..."

 _For God's sake, Ezra, SHUT UP!_

Ezra looked around. Who said that? Certainly not David, who - after he'd figured out what Ezra had said - was raging and spitting in his fury. Ezra had to laugh a little at the sight of the man's face. _'I may die but I'll do it on my terms...'  
_  
He pulled in another gasp of air. The blackness was closer, coming closer...bringing relief from the pain-

 _Pain?_

A cold fear gripped Ezra then, locked tight in the delicate flesh of this throat. He couldn't _feel_ any pain...well, none except for the pounding headache. His arms, legs, feet...he knew there had been pain before. Horrible, overwhelming pain, searing agony that caused him to vomit and heave until there was nothing left but the pain...

And he didn't feel anything now. He realized, cold sweat forming on his brow and dripping into his hair, that he didn't even feel his limbs. He looked to one side in the murky brown darkness of the room, saw his fingers and tried to move them...

The bastard had broken him. Broken his back, his neck...he was paralyzed...

And then he heard it, over Wyerly's rants...the sound of crashing glass and two soft _"plops"._ Sounds he recognized even as the acrid fumes of tear gas billowed over him and into him, cutting off his air...

One tiny last thought wormed its way into his mind before everything shut down.

 _"They came for me..."_

 **7777777**

David Wyerly staggered to his feet and looked hastily around the room. Tear gas! Damn it, that could only mean one thing. How the hell had they found him so fast?

The first acrid fumes wrapped around him, invading his nostrils, his open eyes. He knew from experience he had some resistance to the gas. If he got out now, he might still be in possession of his faculties...maybe he could do something, get himself out of this.

He looked down at his captive. The man obviously didn't have the same endurance that David had; he was already gasping and struggling to raise his head. Pretty amazing, that he had enough energy to try. _Needing to breathe is a pretty powerful stimulus, though.  
_  
 _Man shouldn't be breathing. Man should be dead. He killed Steven, he should be dead himself._

Tears were starting to blur his vision. He reached for the pistol he'd left on the couch, pointed it at the agent. Just one shot, right in the forehead, in the back of the head...then he'd be dead and Steven would be avenged and Uncle Arthur's weird game would be over.

His hand trembled. He tightened his fingers around the trigger. _'Kill him. It's over. Kill him.'  
_  
 _'Kill him now and you'll get the needle for killing a Fed...'_ His uncle would pass him over, give the business to Monica or Nina, or more likely marry them off to someone more suited for the job.

Did that matter?

The Fed really hadn't suffered enough for his crimes...

There was a crash, the door flying open and the last beams of the setting sun penetrating the murky room. Beings flowed in, men, dressed in Kevlar over ski clothes and wearing cumbersome air-masks. Words - distorted by the masks - but still clear enough, echoed off the walls. "Federal Agents. Drop your weapon!"

He spun around, still not sure what he was going to do, but before he could do anything, there was a cracking noise and a burning pain in his chest, spinning him around. The gun flew from his suddenly nerve-less fingers and disappeared from sight.

Then everything went black.

 **7777777**

 ** _University Hospital_**

Dr. Culver was waiting when Dan Kruse came out of the locker room after having changed his clothes. The two men were close friends, even separated by years and experience. Kruse knew full well there had been at least a dozen candidates for his job, but that for some reason Culver chose him. Even though Kruse tried to pretend he had the surgeon's ego, he never stopped trying to figure out _why_ he had been hired.

"Damn good work, Dan," Culver praised. "I don't know how you managed it, the way that lung tissue was collapsing."

With anyone else, Kruse would have made some egocentric comment but he knew better than to try that on his mentor. "That man either has a guardian angel working overtime or an incredible will to live." He paused. "Have you seen him?"

"He's back in ICU. He's breathing on his own, we didn't put him back on the ventilator." Culver sounded a little tentative when he said that. They'd argued about it-weighing the risks of further damaging the lung tissue with the chance the lungs would be unable to function at all.

"We'd better find a cure for that damn poison in his system or it won't make any difference," Kruse grumbled. "The labs have any ideas?"

Culver shook his head. "Last I heard they'd sent samples and requests for help everywhere. FBI lab in Washington, UCLA, CDC in Atlanta. _Somebody_ has to know what the hell that stuff is."

Without another word, the two doctors made their way to ICU, coming to a halt just inside the double doors. There were two uniformed policemen at the entrance, and two men wearing nylon windbreakers with the yellow legend ATF on the back, standing in front of the door to Buck's room.

"Larabee and his guys aren't back yet?"

Culver nodded at the man standing outside Buck's door quietly murmuring into a radio clipped to his shoulder. "If they were, _he_ wouldn't be here."

The guard nodded at the doctors, moving slightly away from the opening. Kruse, followed more slowly by Culver, entered to check on his patient.

A nurse was in the cubicle with Buck, noting the readings on the monitors. She looked up when the doctors entered. After exchanging a few words, she proffered the chart to Kruse and slipped out of the room.

Kruse didn't bother looking at the chart; instead he handed it to Culver and went to the bedside. A quick glance over the monitors revealed what he had feared: his patient's vital signs were dropping steadily. He shook his head, catching Culver's eye. "He can't stand another round of surgery," he said quietly. "If he starts hemorrhaging again-"

Culver sighed, but before he could say anything, they heard quick footsteps in the hallway and the nurse appeared again. The guard quickly stepped to block her from the room.

"Oh for God's sake!" Culver snapped in a rare burst of temper. "She's a _nurse_ , damn it! The same nurse that left this room not two minutes ago!"

The lines around the ATF agent's mouth tightened but he stepped back, making sure everyone realized his hand was on his weapon. The nurse - Kim - ignored him as she had grown used to doing. "The lab just called," she said breathlessly. "They just got a fax from Riverside Pharmaceuticals. Dr. Hastings thinks she knows what the poison is!"

 **7777777**

JD watched as the helicopter rose from the snow-packed ground, turned into the night-dark sky, destined for Denver. The helicopter carried the pilot, Nathan, Chris, Ezra, and Ezra's captor, David Wyerly. No one had been very happy about putting both captor and victim on the same helicopter; the pilot - a wild man named Stan Lewis - had announced rather violently they were putting too much weight in his chopper, but both Ezra and Wyerly were critical and needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. The paramedics - and for a few minutes it seemed like there were a dozen of them around the cabin - had all insisted on a "wrap and run" for both patients. Nathan had to go along as a medic. Chris had no intention of letting Wyerly - bleeding heavily from the chest or not - anywhere near Ezra without himself in between them - so they'd all gone. Fortunately there was little wind - even overburdened the helicopter should manage the relatively short trip into Denver.

JD wasn't worried about the chopper crashing. He simply couldn't believe he _wasn't on it.  
_  
JD had started toward the chopper, thinking of nothing about getting back to the hospital as quickly as he could. He had to know about Buck. He had to get to Buck, be by his side. Everything was spinning crazily out of control; he needed his big brother to make it all right again. For hours he'd had to force thoughts of Buck from his mind, focus on Ezra, finding him and bringing him safely home.

But now Ezra was wrapped up in blankets with an IV trailing from one hand and Nathan right by his side to make sure he made the trip safely. Now JD's mind turned back to Buck. He had to get back there, had to check on Buck, had to make sure his big brother had made it through the surgery. But Chris had caught his shoulder as he headed for the helicopter.

"JD. You head back down the mountain with Josiah and Vin. I'll call you at the office when I know something."

JD had just stared at the team leader. Chris couldn't be serious. He started to say something but Chris' attention had shifted to Vin. "You'll stay with him?"

It was a question, but not really a question. Vin just nodded. Chris went on, "You or Josiah stay with him at all times. I don't want the OPR guys talking to him without one of you there, understand?"

"I've got it, Chris. Don't worry, we'll take care of JD." Vin had reached forward and locked hands with Larabee. "You take care of Ez and Buck. Call us when...when you know anything. We'll get there as fast as we can."

Chris had nodded, then met JD's anguished gaze. "It was a righteous shoot, JD. He was going to kill Ezra. That's all OPR has to know."

"Chris! Come on!" Nathan's voice rose above the noisy helicopter. Chris nodded at Vin and JD and turned run to get in the craft before it rose from the snow-covered ground.

And JD still couldn't believe it. He wanted to get to the hospital, right away. He needed to know about Ezra. Needed to know that Buck...that Buck was still alive.

He needed to see Buck.

Oh, JD knew it was his bullet in David Wyerly - the man who'd tried to kill Ezra. JD couldn't even remember, wasn't even sure he knew, what the man looked like. He just knew, through the distorted Plexiglas of his gas mask, he'd seen the man aim a gun, ready to shoot Ezra. And he'd stopped him. The only way he could.

It just seemed so right and simple and...clean. A perp was threatening his teammate, he took the guy out.

And then the enormity of it all sank in.

 _'God, what is happening to me? What am I turning into? I just_ _ **shot**_ _a man, maybe killed him-and I don't even care?'  
_  
Vin must have sensed what he was thinking. Suddenly the sharpshooter's face filled his vision. "JD? JD! Snap out of it."

JD blinked. He licked chapped lips. God he was so tired, taking a step seemed to be an enormous undertaking, much less gearing up for a session with the ATF version of Internal Affairs. "Vin-" he started, hearing his voice trail off. He latched onto Vin's arm. "Buck," he said urgently. "How's Buck!"

Vin shook his head, blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion and concern. "I don't know any more than you do, Kid," he said gently. "He's still in surgery, far as I know." Surprisingly, for Vin was not a "touchy feely" kind of guy, he gave JD a quick hug. "Just hold it together, JD, just for a while longer. We'll get you done with the investigators and then we'll go to the hospital and check on both the guys."

 **7777777**

No sooner had the chopper touched down on the helipad than everyone was moving. A medic, dressed in scrubs, flung the door open. "Gunshot victim first," he ordered.

"Like Hell," Chris growled.

Nathan caught him by the arm. "It's okay, Chris. Ezra's vitals are stable. This other guy isn't doing so well."

Chris hesitated, then jumped out of the copter, standing out of the way as first Wyerly, then Ezra's gurneys were hefted out. He followed as the crowd surged forward, into the trauma unit. For just a minute he was reminded of that day weeks ago when Vin's phone call had sent him racing to this same place, hoping desperately Buck would still be alive when he got here. The, only days later, Ezra had been the patient as the doctors had feverishly fought to save him from the poison in his system.

And now, Ezra's life hung in the balance _again._ And Buck-

His head shot up as someone grabbed his arm. It took a second for him to recognize the tall blond man as Dan Kruse, the surgeon who'd operated on Buck. The man's mouth was moving, words were coming out - "What did you say?"

"We've been waiting for you to get back. Go on upstairs. Dr. Culver has some good news for you!"

Kruse turned and quickly vanished behind the double doors leading to the exam room. Chris started after him but Nathan caught his arm. "Chris. Go!" the paramedic urged.

"But – Ezra -" Chris was torn, his heart forcing him to go to Buck but his mind insisting he stay with Ezra.

"Go! I'll wait for news on Ezra. Go check on Buck!"

Without another word, Chris turned and raced for the elevators.

 _tbc..._


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Buck gave Vin and Chris the matching spurs referred to in this story in a story by Greenwoman which I *think* was "Things to Do in Denver", an early ATF story._

 **Part 25**

Realistically, Chris knew it couldn't have taken him more than two or three minutes to get from the Trauma Center to Intensive Care. It seemed like hours. Even after the elevator doors opened, the long hallway to ICU seemed to stretch forever.

He knew one of the cops at the double doors, well, knew him enough to recognize him. He nodded at both the officers as he stepped through the doors, his eyes immediately going to Buck's cubicle. He could just barely see a figure in the bed and a nurse close by; halfway noticed the blue windbreakers and yellow letters shouting out ATF of the two men on either side of the room. Legs shaking, mind frozen, Chris headed for the room.

"Chris. Chris!"

It took two repetitions of his name before he recognized it, blinked, looked around. Dr. Culver was at the nurses' station, beckoning him. Not knowing what to think-not even trying to think, Chris joined him. "How's Buck?" he asked intently. He had no way of knowing how he looked, the white, strained face, the lines of fatigue and worry etched deep around his eyes and mouth.

Culver noticed though; he shook his head but didn't even try to convince the ATF leader he needed to take a break. Before he could say anything Chris spoke again. "Kruse said there was some good news?"

Culver noted the desperate look in the eyes, knew that the man was hungry for any good news. In this case, he had some very good news to give. "You might want to send Dr. Monica Hastings some flowers," he said, smiling. "She seems to be making a habit of saving your guys. Chris, she identified the poison used on Buck. _And_ found the antidote. Buck's already had two doses. He's responding well...his blood pressure is holding and he's breathing better."

Chris just stared at the doctor, eyes huge, his mind trying to wrap itself around what he'd just heard. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Before he could even think what to say, the doctor stepped closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He's still critical, Chris. He's got a long way to go before he's out of the woods - but at least now he has a fighting chance."

Chris grabbed hold of the railing. He had to, his legs were shaking. Finally pulling himself together, he nodded at the doctor. "Can I see him?"

"I get the feeling if I said ' _no'_ you'd go in anyway," Culver responded dryly. "Go ahead. But, Chris-"

Larabee stopped. "What?"

"You need some rest, yourself. I would imagine you're running on nothing but sheer nerve now, and sooner or later you're going to collapse."

"Well, then, it'll be later," Chris snapped. "I have two men fighting for their lives, Doc. They need me and I'll be here for them."

After a moment, Culver nodded his head. "I'm on my way down to Standish now."

Chris frowned. "Kruse is down there-"

"He's doing surgery on the other patient you brought in," Culver said calmly. "This is a _hospital_. We have to treat everyone, and we do the best we can."

Just by the way he said it made Chris realize that Culver knew who the other injured man was. Yes, the hospital had to do their job. but that didn't mean Chris was going to leave only an exhausted Nathan to guard Ezra. He turned around and beckoned to the two agents on duty at Buck's door. Kimmel from Team 3 and another man Chris knew but couldn't recall his name. "Both of you go downstairs to the trauma unit. We just brought Ezra Standish and his kidnapper in. Agent Jackson is down there too, Kimmel. I want one of you on Standish and the other on the perp until Travis, your own team leader, or I relieve you. Understood?"

He barely heard their responses as he brushed by them into Buck's room.

All the force and energy he'd been running on for too long deserted him. Weariness swept over him, leaving him trembling in its wake. Carefully, feeling very old and tired, he made his way to the side of the bed. Someone had left a straight-backed chair there but he ignored it, gripping the metal bed rail so tightly his fingernails dug into his palm. He ignored that slight pain as well, his whole attention focused on Buck.

 _'He looks so fragile.'_ The thin cotton gown and blanket didn't conceal the thick bandages from the life-saving surgery of a few hours ago, or the injuries from the explosion. An IV fed into his left arm and the little plastic clothespin that measured oxygen was clipped onto his right index finger. Oxygen in green plastic tubing coiled around his neck and into his nose. The weight had melted off him since the bombing; high cheekbones cast his closed eyes into dark shadows.

But, for the first time in days, the slightest flush of healthy color was in his face.

Chris stroked Buck's face gently, rested one hand on his forehead before combing back the thick dark hair from his friend's eyes. He sank down onto the chair and reached for Buck's limp hand, closing his fingers over it tightly. "You've got to stop scaring me like this, Bucklin."

 _Bucklin.  
_  
That had been Sarah's name for Buck; her affectionate nickname for her husband's best friend, the man she loved like a brother. Chris used it too, sometimes, but it was Sarah's name for him.

He remembered the day Vin had used it for the first time, just kidding around one day when they were talking about full names and Vin had reluctantly admitted his was Vincent Michael Tanner...

 _"I fail to see what is wrong with that name," Ezra had declared over the other guys' laughter. "That's a very impressive name, Vin." The undercover agent stared at Buck. "What_ _ **is**_ _wrong with you, Mr. Wilmington?"_

 _Buck stopped laughing. "Nothing against your name, Junior," he'd assured a red-faced Tanner. "It's just, Vincent always makes me think of that guy in that old TV show._ _ **Beauty and the Beast**_ _?"  
_  
 _"That's a Disney movie, Buck!" JD had pushed him on the shoulder. "Not a TV show!"_

 _"No! It was a TV show, too. There were these mutant people living down in the tunnels in...hell, I don't know. New York I think. That gal from the Terminator movies, she was in it...come on, guys!" He appealed Josiah, "_ _ **You**_ _remember it, don't you, Josiah?"_

 _The profiler shook his head. "I must have missed that one, Brother Buck."_

 _Buck just shook his head. "Ah come on, I can't have been the_ _ **only**_ _one that ever saw it! This Vincent guy, see, he was sort of a monster, but not really-"_

 _Vin rolled his eyes. "So what's_ _ **your**_ _real name, Buck?"_

 _"You know my name."_

 _"Can't be!" JD chimed in. "Nobody'd name their kid 'Buck'. Sounds like a dog name."_

 _"Well, thanks a lot, JD!" Buck elbowed him._

 _"Buckingham," Ezra said out of nowhere._

 _"Buckley," nodded Josiah._

 _Nathan shook his head. "Your name is William or something, right, Buck? Buck's just a nickname."_

 _"Bucklin!" Vin tossed into the conversation._

 _Buck jerked like he'd been shot. For just a second, his eyes lit up - then he looked toward Chris and his face changed, all light and fun leaving it. "I don't got no fancy name," he said, pushing the chair back abruptly. "Buck's what my ma named me and it was good enough for her so I guess it's good enough for all of you." He strode toward the cash register._

Team Seven hadn't been together very long then and no one knew exactly how to take Buck's sudden mood change. Chris, of course, was the only one who knew why Buck had reacted the way he had, and he didn't feel comfortable telling anyone. Vin asked him if he'd upset Buck but Chris had just shrugged and said it was hard to hurt anyone's feelings when said feelings were tough as shoe leather.

It had taken awhile for Buck and Vin to get close. Chris knew, inside, that Buck had deliberately kept himself aloof-well, as aloof as Buck Wilmington knew how-from the sharpshooter, sensing the tight friendship forming between Chris and Vin. It had been over a year later when Vin again used the nickname, Bucklin. Buck started to ask him not to do it but Chris had stopped him. He had seen the light of happy memory in Buck's eyes. Vin still used the name quite a bit, the others occasionally, but, until today, Chris hadn't used it since Sarah and Adam's death.

It sounded right to say it now. He smiled, his thumb making soothing circles on the back of Buck's hand. "You hang in there, Bucklin. You hear me? You just hang in there."

 **7777777**

The offices of Team Seven were quiet, save for the hushed clicking of the keys on JD's keyboard. The youngest member of the team sat at his desk, fingers typing rapidly, eyes never leaving his monitor. He hadn't said anything since they'd arrived back at the Federal Building. He hadn't said much on the way, either, only stating he wanted to get his report of the shooting written while it was still fresh in his mind. Now Vin tried again.

"JD, that can wait," he urged. "Come on. Take a break. Let's go get something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Vin took a deep breath. _'Okay, try to think like he's thinking.'_ He remembered after the incident in Hugo, writing his reports about the shooting, going through his interviews with investigators from the Office of Professional Responsibility and the local law enforcement. He remembered his feelings of grief and anger that he had been forced to take a life-second-guessing himself, wondering how he could have done it differently. That was something he went through every time he shot someone-through his years in the Army Rangers, and as a bounty hunter and then a US Marshal before joining the ATF. As hard as it was, he hoped he could never injure someone without feeling that way. Impulsively he asked, "You want to talk about it?"

JD didn't take his eyes off the screen. "No."

"You had to do it, you know. He was going to shoot Ezra."

"I _know_ that, Vin," JD snapped. "I was the one that took the shot, remember? Where were _you_ out there? "

Vin stiffened. "I couldn't get a clear shot. Look, are you blamin' me-?"

"No! I'm not blaming anybody but David Wyerly." JD finally looked at Vin. His face was set in stone but his eyes were alive with grief and pain and fury. "Leave me _alone_ , Vin! I just want to get this over with and then get to the hospital."

Vin looked at Josiah, who shrugged and nodded toward the break room. Vin followed him in and closed the door quietly. Josiah opened the refrigerator and tossed Vin a bottle of water. "Maybe it's best to let him be," the older man said. "Things have been in an uproar for young JD lately. Maybe he has to focus on this right now."

"Things have pretty much been in an _uproar_ for all of us," Vin pointed out. He walked over to the window and stood looking out at the lights of downtown Denver. _'I'm in over my head with this one.'_ "Maybe you can talk to him?"

He heard Josiah sigh behind him. "JD doesn't need me right now, Vin. The only two people who could help him at this moment are Buck or Chris. Buck _can't_ be here and Chris chooses not to be."

"You know why Chris ain't here, Josiah. He's right where he has to be right now."

"Actually, I agree with you, Vin. But Chris isn't with Buck for _Buck's_ sake. He's there for his own sake. I would imagine Buck would say that Chris should be here, for JD."

Vin shook his head. "Do you really think he'd be any help to JD right now? Chris is holdin' on by his fingernails. If Buck...if Buck dies..."

He felt a giant hand squeeze his heart. He closed his eyes, forcing hot tears back. "Damn, Josiah, I can't do this. Chris will fall apart if Buck dies. And Buck - Buck thinks _I_ can put him back together." He took a deep breath. "Hell, I don't even know how to start. And now with Ezra - this team is fallin' apart, Josiah. I feel like I'm losin' _everybody_ that means anything to me and I can't do a damn thing about it! Chris tells _me_ to take care of JD , but JD won't even talk to me!"

There was a long silence.

Finally Josiah spoke. "I don't think this team...this family will fall apart. Something brought us together. Call it Fate or Karma or God...whatever brought seven such different men together to create something much bigger than any of us ever expected."

"And now it's all fallin' apart."

Josiah slowly shook his head. "I don't believe that. Together, we're strong, Vin. Strong enough to get through the bad times, together."

Vin snorted. "If Buck-or Ezra-dies there won't be a _'together'_ , Josiah.

Josiah finally turned to face him. His craggy face softened. "You're exhausted, Vin. You've been trying to carry your weight, Chris's weight, and Buck's as well."

Vin dropped into a chair. "More'n you know, Preacher"

He felt Josiah's eyes on him. The older man came around the table and sat down at Vin's side. "Is there something you want to talk about, Vin?"

Before Vin could answer JD pushed the door open and stepped inside the break room. He had three or four sheets of paper, stapled together, in his hand. "One of you want to read this for me? I'm supposed to be down in OPR in ten minutes for my interview."

Vin jolted to his feet. "JD, that's crazy. You're worn out. You have forty-eight hours. Chris would want you to wait-"

"I think waiting might be for the best, son." Josiah's deep voice drowned out Vin's.

There was a snap to JD's voice they'd never heard before. "Well, _I_ don't. And I could care less what Chris thinks about it. Read the report or don't read it. Stay with me or don't. I don't need you. I don't need _anybody."_ He whirled around and stomped out the door.

Vin waited until the door had slammed behind their youngest. "Josiah, I think you need to rethink that idea that this team is not fallin' apart. Because it sure as hell looks to me like it is!"

 **7777777**

Nathan assisted the medical staff to stabilize Ezra. He'd been surprised when the head nurse had beckoned him into the room. "We're short staffed," she'd barked. "And he knows you."

"Is the nutcase with the gun going to come bursting in?" asked a Resident as he snapped directions to the nursing staff. Nathan shook his head, recognizing the man from Ezra's _last_ visit here.

"Vin's not here," he muttered, catching a blood pressure cuff one of the nurses tossed to him and gently wrapping it around Ezra's blood-streaked arm. Even though he'd known Ezra's blood pressure would be low from both blood loss and hypothermia, he was still alarmed by the reading.

The resident just grunted when he told him. "How long was he exposed to the cold?"

Nathan shook his head. "He's been missing for over thirty hours. Any or all of that, I guess."

"Damn!" The Resident's eyes were drawn to the heart monitor and the first, erratic tracings on it. He swung around to meet Nathan's eyes. "Can you reach that...that chemist, whatshername, the one that developed T-27? We need to know if there is a residual effect on the heart-"

"Dr. Hastings is on her way." This was a new voice and everyone turned to look at Dr. Culver, just stepping in the door. He smiled at Nathan. "She just helped to save Buck Wilmington's life - she identified the poison he was given. She's on her way over at my request."

Nathan stared at him, the icy feeling in his guy suddenly warming. "Buck-?"

"We've started him on the antidote. He's showing a positive response already." Culver's attention switched back to Ezra. "Now...let's see what Agent Standish has gotten himself into _this_ time."

 **7777777**

Alone in the office - Josiah had followed JD down to his interview with the investigators-Vin paced restlessly around the bullpen. A pink message slip caught his eye. Monica Hastings had called twice during the day. Vin groaned. "Damn, I practically dump the woman and then didn't even call her and let her know what was goin' on." With unfamiliar warmth, he remembered her concern about Ezra. She'd have stayed up in the hills hunting for him all night long if Vin hadn't sent her on home. The poor girl didn't even have her car - she'd left it at the repair garage in Purgatorio. Damn, that seemed like a million years ago.

Making up his mind, he pulled the card with her numbers on it and sat down behind his desk. The faint excitement he'd felt faded away as a computerized voice informed him Riverside Pharmaceuticals was closed; office hours were eight A.M. to six P.M. and if this was an emergency to stay on the line for the answering service. He disconnected and tried her home and cell phones, reaching voice mail on both. He finally left his name and number and asked her to call, no matter the time.

Disappointed, fighting exhaustion and worry, he leaned back in his chair and looked at the wall clock. He wanted to go to the hospital - he wasn't doing any good here - JD wasn't listening to him and didn't want his help. Maybe Josiah could get through to him since Vin wasn't sure he himself even wanted to try. Maybe punching the kid would get his mind on straight.

Sighing, Vin admitted to himself that much of his anger at JD came from something the younger man had said in the car, on the way back from the crime scene. Breaking the heavy silence in the car, JD had swung around and locked eyes with Vin. JD's eyes were dark with rage and grief and something Vin couldn't identify as he spat out, _"So what do you think of your girlfriend now, Vin? She's a damn mobster!"  
_  
"We don't even know if she's _related_ to Wyerly!" Vin had protested, not even denying that Monica Hastings was his girlfriend because really, that wasn't the point. "And even if she _is,_ you can't hold someone responsible for who she's related to. Damn it, JD, she _saved_ Ezra's life!"

"Ezra's life wouldn't have been in any danger if not for her and her damn drug!" JD had railed back.

"Now, brothers, we're all wound too tightly-" Josiah had started but JD wasn't listening, and really, Vin wasn't either. The argument had escalated- Vin couldn't believe now how angry and loud he'd been. That wasn't his way, normally. Just seemed like JD had been getting on his last nerve for days now.

Now, Vin felt guilty. JD had been through a lot lately. He'd lost his home in that explosion and essentially lost Buck too - Vin took in a deep, shocked breath. Hell, how could he have forgotten, even for a minute, how bad things were for Buck? Buck could be dead right now.

The thought hurt, like the twist of a knife in the gut.

Almost in a trance, he stepped back to his desk and picked up an item from it. The antique spur Buck had gifted him with in the first year of Team Seven's formation. Twin to the one Buck had given Chris. For a long time – months - Vin hadn't been sure of why Buck had given it to him, what it meant. Then one day, almost out of the blue, the reason had hit him. He'd gasped then with the shock of it, his heart twisting and singing at the same time as he realized how much Buck cared for Chris - and how much he trusted Vin to be there for the man Buck had called his best friend for years.

At the same time he'd been angered as well, that Buck would step out of Chris' life, relinquish his place to Vin without even a struggle - before Vin had ever even realized what was happening. He'd cornered Buck in the bar one night, dragging him away from the rest of the guys - and the woman fawning over him - and snarled into his face, "What the hell do you think you're doin', Wilmington? Figure since I'm around now you can just waltz off and leave Chris behind?"

He still remembered, with shame, the way the color had leached from Buck's face, replaced by sorrow and loss and deep pain. "I'm not leaving Chris," he said quietly. "I'll always be at his back or by his side when he needs me. But that's just it, Vin. He _doesn't_ need _me_. Maybe I remind him too much of what he used to have. Hell, he wouldn't have lost that life if not for me and we both know it. He's got you now, Vin. Someone he can laugh with and depend on and trust - someone that he can be with and not feel the pain."

Vin had had a drink too many, or maybe he was just shocked. Buck had slipped away before he could open his mouth to yell at Buck, make him see he was wrong, so wrong. And in the months after that Buck refused to reopen the conversation.

Then, during the McPherson case, when they were all so sure Buck was dead and he and Chris had driven as fast as they could to Wyoming on a slim chance of finding him alive, Chris had realized, without Vin even saying anything, that his old friend had been withdrawing from his life and why.

 _'Just as well Buck was alive,'_ Vin thought now, having to grin as he remembered the dressing down Chris had given Buck, as soon as the doctors had told them he'd live. _'Larabee was mad enough to follow him to Heaven or Hell to chew him out.'_

In the months and years that had followed, the rift between the Team Seven leader and his oldest friend seemed to have healed. And now Vin was lucky enough to be able to count Buck, as well as Chris, as his friend.

And now it seemed they'd come full circle. Buck didn't seem to understand that Chris probably couldn't survive his death. He seemed to think Vin could take care of Chris and they'd all take care of JD. Like he could be replaced in any of their lives...

And then Vin remembered the letter.

The letter Buck had told him about, after the explosion, the letter in the thick expanding folder. Nathan had sought him out and given it to him after they'd found out about Buck's poisoning, saying Buck had told him to. Then Ezra had disappeared and Vin hadn't had time to look at it.

Now he reached down into the bottom drawer of his desk and slowly withdrew the dark rust colored folder. Untying the string that closed it, he opened the first section and saw envelopes. Six regular sized and a long, tall blue one, lettered on the outside with gothic style lettering reading _"The Last Will and Testament of _"_ _"Buck Wilmington"_ had been written in the blank in very black ink.

Dropping that as if it were singeing his fingers, Vin searched through the other envelopes. As he had half suspected there was one for each of them: Nathan, Chris, Josiah, Ezra, and JD, as well as another with his own name written on it. He pulled his envelope out with shaking fingers and studied it for a second. Then he tore it open.

And the phone rang.

 _tbc..._


	27. Chapter 27

_a/N: I may be losing my mind, but I could swear I've already posted this chapter. However, says I have not. So if someone recognizes it please let me know... meantime I hope you enjoy it. It is a long chapter..._

 **Part 26**

Josiah stared through the one-way mirror, his features heavy. Listening to what was going on inside the conference room, he mentally shook his head. _'Chris isn't going to like this.'  
_  
In spite of the regulation stating that JD had 48 hours before submitting to an interview; in spite of Vin's and Josiah's advice and his own exhaustion and shock, JD had insisted on meeting with the investigators from the Office of Professional Responsibility, referred to by a lot of agents as "IA" or _Internal Affairs_ , as such an entity would be known in a police department. The meeting between JD and the two agents charged with investigating David Wyerly's shooting had started well. The two - one an older, grizzled veteran like Josiah, who introduced himself as Peter Canik, and his partner, a younger man by the name of Curt Brusing - bent over backwards to make things easy for JD. They reminded him several times he was under no obligation to speak to them at the present time, and that he was entitled to a lawyer of his choice or a peer counselor to assist him. JD had shook his head and signed papers waiving both rights.

There was one other person in the observation room with Josiah. Melinda Trauth, a handsome redheaded woman with the impressive build of a battleship, was a Bureau psychologist. Josiah had dated her frequently in the past and they were still good friends even if it hadn't worked romantically for them. She had several pages stapled inside a manila folder and as JD's recitation of events went on, she underlined or checked items with a pink highlighter. In the adjoining room, Brusing was doing the same thing - Josiah assumed it was a copy of JD's report - while Canik asked an occasional question.

Josiah studied JD's face as the younger man spoke. _'He looks tired-so tired,'_ he thought with a pang. The youngest member of Team Seven had been running on sheer adrenaline for days now, even weeks. Josiah doubted he'd got a good night's sleep since he'd returned from Florida after the explosion. He'd spend nights in the ICU waiting room, then later on the cot in Buck's room or on the couch down the corridor. Even after Buck began to rally and ordered everyone out of his room for a good night's rest, JD had bounced between the spare room at Ezra's and a bed roll on Vin's threadbare carpet. He was welcome at Chris' ranch - and he did stay there occasionally - but even before things had gotten tense between the two, JD had chosen to sleep elsewhere. He'd finally confided to Josiah it was hard sleeping in the room Buck still called "Adam's room", surrounded by boxes containing the belongings not destroyed in the explosion at the loft. Besides, although Vin and Ezra lived in opposite directions from the hospital, they were both about the same number of miles away and closer than either the turn of the century parish house Josiah was renovating in his spare time, or the duplex Nathan was living in until Rain and he got married. And of course, much closer than Chris' ranch outside town.

Even if JD had stayed in one place, Josiah doubted he would have gotten much sleep. He studied the younger man now, noting the harsh shadows under the eyes, the hollows under the too-prominent cheekbones. JD had lost weight. No matter what his friends tried to do, eating wasn't any more important to the boy than sleeping.

 _'Boy.'_ Josiah shook his head, ignoring Melinda's inquiring look. Strange how they called him that, how they all seemed to call him that. It wasn't just that JD was the youngest on the team; it was his innocence, his feeling that good would always prevail, that all the others had lost, if indeed they'd ever had it. JD hadn't had it easy in life either, Josiah knew that. Growing up without a father, being a genius in a world that didn't appreciate anyone different than the norm, and then losing his beloved mother before either one of them had seen their dreams for him come to fruition. But somehow all of that served to make JD less cynical than more. Maybe it was something about being a genius-Josiah's lips quirked as he remembered another genius he'd known. JD was a lot like Murray Bozinsky. He knew Murray had lectured at MIT before the accident-he wondered if JD had met him. He thought the two would like each other.

JD took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. He'd finished his story. Now, Canik and Brusing leaned forward, notebooks at hand, ready to ask questions. And the first question surprised Josiah although it probably shouldn't have.  
"Tell us about your friendship with Buck Wilmington."

Josiah's mind rocketed back in time.

 _"Hell, Chris, you have to be kidding!"_

 _Josiah looked across the table at Nathan. Both of them nodded. The two of them had only been in Denver a few short weeks and already they were getting the feel for the men who would be their teammates._

 _The one doing the yelling was Buck Wilmington. They knew - because Buck had mentioned it - that Wilmington and Team Leader Larabee had been friends for a while, been partners on the Denver PD. That there was a lot more to the story was obvious, but Buck didn't seem to want to go into details and Chris flat out didn't talk about his past. Matter of fact he'd gotten pissed at Buck when he'd found out Wilmington had even mentioned it to the new guys._

 _Vin Tanner, who so far seemed to be the only one Larabee ever listened to, took the picture and CV from Buck's unresisting hand. Josiah noticed - as he had before - that Vin didn't seem to peruse the written material. Instead the sharpshooter looked at the picture and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "Where'd you recruit this one, Larabee? Kindergarten?"  
_  
 _The leader snorted. "Boston. He's just finishing the police academy there - the FBI was hot after this guy. I got him just in time."_

 _"To do_ _ **what,**_ _exactly? Change his diapers?" Wilmington grabbed the picture from Vin and looked at it again. "Jeez, Chris, is this kid even old enough to drive?" He passed the picture to Nathan and Vin handed the papers over to Josiah._

 _"Oh, hell, Buck, of course he is!" Larabee glared at the man sitting across from him. "He's a college graduate! Not just any college, he went to MIT._ _ **He**_ _didn't go to Sandstorm State University!"_

 _Now_ _ **that**_ _was a new name for UNLV._

 _Buck rocked back in his seat like someone had slugged him. Josiah could see the hurt on his face before he looked down, then quickly looked back up, face calm. It would be another six months before Ezra Standish joined Team Seven, but on this day Josiah had observed a perfect "poker face".  
_  
 _It wasn't the first time Chris had argued with Buck but it was the first time anyone saw him apologize. Well, sort of apologize. He met Buck's eyes and his lip quirked into not quite a grin. "'Course he was hacking into computers, not breaking scoring records on the basketball court."_

 _Buck grinned._

 _That was the end of the argument for that day. Whether or not Chris and Buck continued it in private or not Josiah never knew, but Buck never mentioned it again, not even the day JD Dunne walked into the office, looking even younger than his picture._

 _By that time they'd figured out - since they'd stopped passing it around long enough to actually_ _ **read**_ _the CV - that JD was a certified genius who'd started college at age sixteen on a full scholarship and ended up earning a Masters from MIT before his twenty-second birthday. Why a guy like that, who could have started at six figures in some think tank or place, wanted to be a cop was anyone's guess...at least it was until JD got there and_ _ **told**_ _them all about it, almost as soon as he'd said hello._

 _A genius he might be, but in a lot of ways besides his chronological age, JD Dunne_ _ **was**_ _a kid, bubbling over with enthusiasm and excitement and - it was immediately apparent - a real case of hero worship for Chris Larabee._

 _"I heard that Chris Larabee was forming one of the first Remtef teams, they were talking about it back in Boston. Boston's in line for one too, if the first four work out, you know? Anyway I remembered that mission, you know, back when Chris' Navy SEALs outfit sneaked into...oh, where was it? And rescued those guys-"_

 _"Hell, kid, how could you remember that?" Buck drawled. "You were still in your Pampers when that story came out. And besides, the Navy never confirmed or denied it happened."  
_  
 _"But everyone knows it really happened!" JD protested. "One of my high school teachers told me about it. His cousin...maybe it was his brother, I can't remember, he was one of the guys they pulled out. He told me about this tall guy who carried him out on his shoulders and didn't even stop when he was shot!"_

 _Josiah remembered Chris and Buck had exchanged looks and Chris had a funny little half-grin on his face. But he'd said, "Don't believe everything you hear, JD, military people can tell just as many whoppers as anyone else." Then he'd gone into his office. His remark hadn't slowed down JD for a minute. He'd kept talking until it was five o'clock and they were all ready to go home.  
_  
 _"So where you staying, kid?" Buck asked, easily cutting through JD's chatter._

 _The young man stopped dead, his eyes widening as he glanced at the clock._

 _"I stayed at a hotel near the airport last night," he admitted. "Thought I might get out of here early enough to look for an apartment but-" He fixed woebegone eyes on Buck._

 _There was a minute of silence. Just as Josiah was ready to break it, to offer JD his_ _couch, Buck grinned. "You might as well come home with me, then. I've got an extra room with a bed."_

 _Josiah had been to Buck's renovated loft once before. There wasn't a lot of furniture but he did remember the extra bedroom downstairs held a bed, a two-on-three dresser that looked antique, and a battered green metal sea chest. The bed was only a twin but then, JD wasn't that big._

 _So JD and all his worldly possessions, which appeared to be a suitcase, his laptop and an oversized cardboard carton, got into Buck's truck that night. He'd cheerfully announced his motorcycle was due to be shipped to him in a week. And that, apparently, was all JD had or wanted to bring from Boston._

 _Over the next few weeks, JD did diligently search for an apartment in his free time, usually accompanied by Buck and at least some of the others. Vin offered an apartment in his building; Buck and Chris both loudly refused before JD even got to see it._

 _One day, when they were all at lunch at Inez's place and JD was busily circling ads in the "For Rent" pages, Buck loudly sighed. "OK, JD, what are you looking to pay in rent?"_

 _"Buck!" the younger man exclaimed, looking around the crowded place, mortified._

 _"Ah, hell, kid, no one's paying any attention but us. Just spill it."  
_  
 _Face reddening, JD blurted out a range of figures. Buck reached for a cocktail napkin and jotted something on it. He nodded. "Okay. For this amount," he pushed the napkin over to JD, "You're paying a chunk of my mortgage. We'll figure utilities and the rest of it later. Okay?"  
_  
 _"You asking me to live with you?"_

 _"Well, hell, you already are. I haven't used that room much lately." For some reason, Buck shot a look at Chris. "Might as well save your money for something important."_

 _"Hmmm." JD looked down. When he looked back up again his eyes were alight with mischief. "So are we going to put a sock on the door? Or put a red light in the hall?"_

"What are you talking about?"

 _"Well, what if I'm_ _ **entertaining**_ _," JD responded. "I mean, how do I tell you to stay out?"_

 _Buck's mouth opened, then closed. Before he could say anything, he noticed everyone's wide grins.  
_  
 _"Gotcha," JD gloated._

 _Josiah remembered that night, remembered the look of satisfaction and contentment in Chris' eyes as he'd watched the two new friends..._

"I'm surprised Chris Larabee didn't stop Agent Dunne from making this premature statement."

"What-?" Josiah came back to the present abruptly. He was back in the observation room with Melinda, watching JD in his interview with Agents Canik and Brusing. _'Dear God, did I fall asleep?'_ he thought, mortified. He quickly covered by saying, "Chris _isn't_ going to be happy about it. He's at the hospital." Come to think of it, it was odd that Chris hadn't called yet to find out why they were delayed. Josiah's gut clenched, cold. _'If Buck or Ezra is...gone...'  
_  
He calmed himself with an effort. If the worst had happened Chris or Nathan would have called. Vin would know. Vin would come down and get him. And JD.

 _'Oh, Lord, how will that young man survive if either of his big brothers dies? How will any of us survive?'_

He pulled his mind away from that, forcing the thought of it down, away, where it couldn't see the light.

"What's your relationship with Agent Standish?" Brusing asked JD. "Do you consider him a friend as well?"

And Josiah's mind drifted back again...

 _"Damn it, Standish!" Chris' furious voice could have singed metal. "What the hell were you_ _ **doing**_ _in there? This is a team, damn it! I don't need a maverick who can't follow procedure around here!"  
_  
 _"We can't trust him, Chris. Hell, he proved_ _ **that**_ _right off the bat!" Nathan had made no secret of not liking Ezra, which had only worsened after Team Seven's first disastrous mission.  
_  
 _"No place on this team for a self servin' snake." Vin was furious and it showed in the cold fire in his blue eyes, the iron in his soft voice_.

 _"Maybe the FBI was right about you, after all, Ezra?" Josiah could hardly believe those cold words were coming from his own mouth. He pushed back the idea that Ezra looked a little like a lamb surrounded by wolves. 'Hell he's no lamb. Damn him! Won't even apologize or_ _ **try**_ _to explain what happened.'_

 _"You just trashed seven weeks of work, Standish. And almost got JD killed, as well." Chris didn't even mention that Ezra was the one that was actually wounded._

 _JD was sitting across the table, his young face dark with anguish. He licked dry lips. "Chris-" he started. Buck elbowed him._

 _"Stay out of this, kid," the older man snapped._

 _"What happened, Ezra?" Nathan sneered. "Were you asleep or did old man James offer you a bribe to look the other way?"  
_  
 _Through all of this, Ezra had sat quietly in his chair, all alone at the end of the table. JD had started to sit next to him but Ezra shook his head and Buck had grabbed JD's elbow, pulling him away.  
_  
 _"Damn it, Ezra!" Chris exploded. "Say something!"_

 _"He can't make any excuse for what he did," Vin snarled._

 _Ezra shrugged, the poker face that so enraged them firmly in place. "I have nothing to say, Mr. Larabee. You know the facts and have drawn your conclusions accordingly. Who am I to differ with you?"  
_  
 _Chris slammed his fist down on the glossy surface of the conference table. "Is that all you have to say for yourself? Damn it, Ezra, do you realize the judge - hell the whole office - is out for your blood? This whole damn thing blew up in our faces - three agents injured, a woman dead and James and his nephew cleared out without a trace."_

 _"I take full responsibility for my failures, Agent Larabee." Ezra reached into his pocket, producing a pen. He pulled the legal sized notepad in front of him closer. "I assume you will accept my resignation? Or would you prefer to fire me?"_

 _"Damn it, Standish! You'll be lucky if that's_ _ **all**_ _that happens. The judge is talking about filing charges against you. You're looking at prison time, or don't you care?"_

 _Josiah had been vaguely aware of JD's increasing agitation. But now the youngest member stood up, his face deathly pale. "No! You've got this all wrong!"  
_  
 _Josiah was looking at Ezra and saw something like alarm cross the undercover agent's face. "Mr. Dunne!" he snapped. "Sit down!"_

 _"JD," Buck started. Then something caused his eyes to widen. "JD?" he repeated, almost in a whisper._

 _Chris' head shot up. He looked from Buck, to Ezra, and then finally to JD. When he spoke all the anger was leeched from his tone. "You have something to say, JD?"_

 _"No, he does not," Ezra snapped. The poker face was gone now, replaced by something close to panic. "I was the agent in charge. What happened is my responsibility and mine only."_

 _JD shook his head. Tears trembled on his eyelashes. "No, Ezra." His voice was choked. "I'm not letting you hang for me."_

 _"JD?" Buck said the name quietly, like a prayer._

 _"Don't lie to protect him, JD," Nathan warned. "He's not worth it."  
_  
 _"I agree totally, Mr. Jackson. Mr. Dunne, please cease your noble, but totally misguided intervention."_

 _Chris' eyes hadn't left JD's face. "Talk to me, JD." His voice was quiet._

 _The room went dead silent._

 _Finally, JD nodded. He looked at Ezra. "Thanks for what you were going to do, Ezra, but it's not right." He took a deep breath and faced Chris, meeting the leader's eyes with his own. "Chris...Ezra didn't screw up."  
_  
 _"It was his job to send the signal." To Josiah, it sounded as if Vin were pleading for something._

 _"He couldn't send it." JD's voice was calm but intent. His eyes met Ezra's again, with sorrow in them. "I disabled his computer. He couldn't send anything out."  
_  
 _"What!" This time it was Buck, half rising in his chair. "JD, what the hell were you thinking?"_

 _"He's lying to protect Ezra!" Nathan said, although it was obvious he wasn't sure he believed his own words._

 _Chris' eyes were still focused on JD. "All of you. Sit down. And shut up." He pointed at JD. "Go on."_

 _"This is really not necessary," Ezra rose from his chair. "I've already accepted my responsibility, you all know what happened, there's no reason for Mr. Dunne to fall on his sword for me-"_

 _"Ezra." Chris' voice was quiet. And deadly. "Sit down and be quiet."_

 _Ezra opened his mouth to argue, but Buck, looking like he'd just woken up to find his worst nightmare was true, put a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced the younger man back into his seat._

 _JD took a deep breath. His sorrowful eyes passed over all of them, hesitating briefly as he looked at Buck. Then he turned to Chris. "That girl, Annie. The one that was killed. She was James' girlfriend...he didn't treat her too good, I guess. We got...friendly." His face turned beet red._

 _Ezra opened his mouth to say something but this time it was Vin that put a hand on his shoulder.  
_  
 _"I...I knew it was getting time for the bust. I was going crazy, worrying what was going to happen to Annie. So...I told her."  
_  
 _"Oh, JD," Buck whispered._

 _"_ _ **What**_ _did you tell her?" Chris asked. His face was dark._

 _"All of it. Who I was, who Ezra was. What we were there to do. I told her the bust was coming down, to get out. She didn't believe me at first. She kept saying they couldn't have done what we said. I showed her pictures, played the tapes we had." He took another breath. "It didn't even dawn on me that she was...playing me. I thought...thought she was just someone innocent caught in the middle. Ezra found out what was going on and...and he tried damage control. He was going to send you a message, tell you to come in. I - Annie was still there, she still didn't want to believe...she wouldn't leave. I needed more time. I thought, for sure, she'd sleep on it and...I begged Ezra for just another night. I knew she'd ..she'd realize..but Ezra said no. So I put a blockade around his computer system. No message was going out. He didn't realize at first...he kept trying to make me stay in our room, so we could see when it all came down. And then he realized what I'd done."  
_  
 _Ezra was shaking his head. "I was in charge. It was my responsibility-"  
_  
 _No one was listening to Ezra. They were all staring at JD. The young man had lost eye contact with any of them and was staring down at the table. "Annie told James and his uncle what we were there for. And he shot her, right there, in front of us. Then he turned his gun on Ezra. And then, it all went to hell and you were there and...I still don't know how he got word out. But James and his uncle got away. But it wasn't Ezra's fault, it was mine. He was taking the fall for me."_

 _Josiah looked around the room, seeing the sick feeling in his stomach reflected on everyone's face. Vin and Nathan - neither one of whom had trusted Ezra since the beginning - looked especially ashamed. They knew JD was telling the truth. The ring of sincerity in his words and the shattered look on his face, not to mention the look on Ezra's, told them that._

 _Chris looked across the table at Ezra. "Well?" It was a challenge._

 _Ezra's eyes shot wildly around the room. "It makes no difference. I was the agent in charge. It was my responsibility -"  
_  
 _"Damn it, Ezra. You were going to let us throw you to the wolves and not say anything?" Buck sounded horrified, ashamed, and grateful, all at the same time._

 _"It was my -"_

 _"Stop it!" JD exploded. "It was_ _ **my**_ _responsibility, not yours, Ezra! You were going to let them do it, weren't you? Just to protect me-" He glared in everyone's direction, but especially at Vin and Nathan. "And you all were going to let him."  
_

Josiah was brought out of his memory abruptly when the door to the conference room slammed open and AAD Montgomery stormed in.

"What the hell is going on here?" he roared.

 **7777777**

Nathan stepped out of the examining room, stretching his back to relieve the tight muscles there. He'd disposed of the gown and gloves he'd been wearing and now he walked down the hallway, seeking the coffeepot.

He poured a cup, taking a sip and grimacing at the bitterness before loading it with powdered creamer and sugar. Then he dropped into one of the chairs nearby and stretched his long legs out, staring up at the ceiling.

Ezra was breathing on his own. He hadn't regained consciousness, but he was responsive to pain and other stimuli. The frostbite affecting his fingers and toes wasn't as severe as Nathan had feared. And – ironically - the cold had actually _helped_ , slowing the bleeding from the many wounds.

The concern was his heart.

Hypothermia could cause cardiac irregularities, even heart attacks. Nathan knew that. The doctors treating Ezra knew that. Add in shock and blood loss...

If that was what was causing the dangerous, sporadic rapid heartbeat, there was treatment. Medications to stabilize the heart, warmth, quiet - in time Ezra's heartbeat would stabilize.

But there could be another factor, a hidden, deadly one.

Not quite a month before, Ezra had been poisoned with massive, repeat doses of the experimental heart drug, T-27. T-27 promised new hope to hundreds of thousands of people with certain cardiac disorders, but had exactly the _opposite_ effect when administered to someone with a _healthy_ heart. Ezra had been only minutes away from death when a doctor at another hospital had realized Ezra must have somehow ingested T-27. Even so, Ezra's life had hung in the balance until Monica Hastings, the inventor of T-27, had come up with the antidote. Hastings had assured them that there would be no "long-range" damage to Ezra's heart, but one month wasn't long range. Monica Hastings was supposed to be on her way. She'd saved Ezra before, and just tonight she'd saved Buck-could she pull off a third miracle?

And what the _hell_ was taking her so long to get here?

And then he saw a woman, almost running down the corridor. Nathan blinked, then blinked again, finally realizing who it was. He'd seen Monica Hastings before, several times; he and Vin had been at her labs frequently during the investigation of just how Ezra had been poisoned with her drug. He'd seen her tired, anxious, apologetic and stressed out, but he'd never seen her any other way than perfectly groomed, made up, hair perfect, wearing clothes that had to be designer originals. This woman in pale blue scrubs and a stained white lab coat, wearing sneakers and with her hair pulled back into an untidy ponytail and a face scrubbed clean of make-up, looked years younger and innocent, almost angelic. For the first time, he could see why Vin was so attracted to her.

"Agent Jackson!" Monica Hastings' eyes lit up when she saw him. "I'm so sorry - traffic was horrible and there was an accident-" she shook her head, sending strands of hair flying. "How is Agent Standish? Agent Wilmington?"

"Buck's doing better, thanks to you." He'd talked to Chris on the house phone about fifteen minutes before. "Ezra - we don't know. Dr. Culver wants to talk to you, have you look at the EKG."

Monica shook her head, her eyes sparkling with tears. "If T-27 is still endangering his life...I'm starting to wish I'd never invented it!"

Even though that wasn't far from what Nathan had been thinking, he rushed to say, "Don't think that. It's a great drug. It'll save lives. A lot of lives."

She looked at him, and then nodded her head, once. "Thank you, Agent Jackson. And now, if you could show me which room he's in, I'll see if my errant child is endangering Agent Standish yet again."

"Call me Nathan." He hesitated, looking toward Trauma 1, where he knew they were still working frantically on David Wyerly. They'd called a Code Blue, but apparently had got his heart going again. If Monica Hastings was indeed related to him, she had the right to know about his condition.

On the other hand, if she _was_ related to David Wyerly, that made her Steven Curran's cousin, as well. Steven Curran. A man Ezra had killed. A crime lord in his own right.

He _couldn't_ tell her.

She could be completely removed from the family. Wyerly was an uncommon name, but not _that_ unusual. The hospital, or the police, would notify David Wyerly's family. In the meantime, Monica Hastings had a job to do and Nathan wasn't going to interfere with her doing it.

He guided her through the doors of Trauma 2.

 **7777777**

Vin hung up the phone, rubbing his ear gingerly. It was rare that he was subjected to one of Chris' blistering verbal lashings, but he'd just received a beaut. Not that he could blame Chris. Hell, even _he_ couldn't understand why he and Josiah hadn't been able to stop JD from talking with the investigators.

On the good - hell, the wonderful side, Buck was better - if not out of danger, at least not at death's door. And Monica had once again saved someone Vin cared about. That was one good woman. He remembered the flowers she'd sent him after the inspection was over and he resolved to order her roses - red roses - first thing in the morning.

If she could just pull another miracle out of her hat and somehow help Ezra...

"Come on, Ez. You can do it. You hang on." His words rang out in the silence of the empty offices.

He sat down, then, hearing the rustle of paper, stood up again. The letter from Buck -the one he'd just opened when the phone rang - he'd laid it on his chair.

For a moment he hesitated. He'd opened the letter when he thought Buck's death was imminent. Buck had _told_ him to read it, but _should_ he? Now?

Curiosity overcame him. He needed to know what Buck had thought was so important.

Quickly he unfolded the sheets of paper, noticing they were typed in large print in very black ink. He smiled, shaking his head. Buck never mentioned Vin's dyslexia but he obviously had tried to make this letter - that was so important to him - easy for Vin to read.

For several minutes Vin studied the letter. It was late, he was tired, and even though the letter was printed it was slow going for him. But soon he was fixated on Buck's words.

He read it twice, then turned picked up the envelope and studied it. No date, nothing to say _when_ Buck had written it, just Vin's name written in Buck's sprawling handwriting. Vin dropped the letter on the floor. He looked over at the expanding file he'd retrieved from Buck's bombed-out apartment. All this time, he'd been carrying the damn thing around and he'd never thought to look inside. And now, he was its custodian.

Chris was going to shit a brick.

"Damn it, Bucklin, what the _hell_ were you thinking?"

 **7777777**

"Sit down, Agent Dunne."

It was the first thing AAD Montgomery had said since he'd stormed into the interview and stopped it, then ordered JD upstairs to his office. He'd also, rather forcefully, told Josiah he was _not_ welcome to come along.

JD sank into a comfortable leather chair in front of the massive desk. It was the first time he'd been in the AAD's office, and he shook off enough fatigue and worry to notice the furnishings. They were luxurious, far more than any other office he'd seen in the Federal building, even more than AD Travis', who had brought his own furnishings in from his office at the courthouse. Montgomery must have purchased these as well, JD couldn't see the ATF funding butter-soft leather chairs and couch, real wood filing cabinets, and a huge desk made of some glossy black wood with lavish carving on the legs. On the top of the desk there was a marbled jade penholder and a beautiful oriental sculpture with intricate carving..

Montgomery sat down in his own richly upholstered chair behind the desk. "A little different from Team Seven's offices, isn't it?"

For some reason that remark bothered JD, but one couldn't deny it. "Yes, sir."

"Forget the _sir_ , son. And may I call you JD?"

This was weird. Why did Montgomery want to talk to hiIm, and why be so chummy about it? But again, JD answered, "Yes."

Montgomery stood up again and moved to a corner cupboard. He pulled open the doors to reveal a mini-wet bar. "I think you could use a drink. It's been a long day. I know _I_ could use one." Before JD could think of how to answer that, a large cut-glass tumbler, half full of an amber liquid, was thrust into his hand. JD took a cautious sip. He wasn't much for alcohol and he hated whiskey, but this was brandy - he recognized it from the time he and Ezra had been undercover together - and excellent, even to his untrained palate.

 _'_ _Alcohol is prohibited in Federal office buildings.'_

JD had no idea why that thought had popped into his head, and he didn't say it out loud. He swirled the brandy around in his glass like Ezra had taught him, reminding himself to tell Ez the AAD hadn't served it in the balloon glasses like Ezra had insisted upon. Then he remembered Ezra was in the hospital...maybe dying, or maybe even dead. Then he thought of Buck and his stomach lurched. Carefully he put the glass down on the arm of the chair.

Montgomery appeared content to savor his brandy, eyes half closed, but JD had the uncomfortable feeling the older man was watching every move he made. Clearing his throat, he said, a little breathlessly, "I - um, thanks for the drink, but if I'm not going to finish the interview I'd - I want to get back to the hospital. I mean -"

Montgomery waved an elegant hand. "You're worried about your teammates. Of course. I just called and both Standish and Wilmington are hanging on. I understand there's actually been a change for the better in Wilmington's condition - a local laboratory isolated that insidious poison."

JD gasped, a huge load seemingly disappearing from his heart. He jumped up from the chair, sending the brandy flying and barely even noticing. "He - he's going to make it?" The voice was breathless. "I've got to - got to get there -"

"Of course. But a moment of your time, first? This is something I've been pondering for quite some time and I feel I must discuss it with you."

JD hesitated, then plopped down into his chair. He only then noticed he'd spilled his drink, but Montgomery's next words caught his attention as nothing else could have.

"JD. I've been reviewing your file. Your background is impressive. To be frank, young man, I think you are wasted on Team Seven."

JD sat up straight. "What? But Team Seven is the best, Chris is-"

Again, Montgomery held up his hand. "I know about Team Seven. And I know about Larabee. But - to be honest, I have serious concerns. Are you planning on making the ATF a career? Because I don't think staying on Team Seven will help you at all. They over protect you, for one thing."

JD fell back in his chair, words caught in his throat. _'That's true,'_ a snide little voice said in his mind. _'You know it is.'_

"I-" he stammered.

"JD, the ATF is like any other entity. The ones who work the hardest, show off the best, they get promoted." He waved his arm around the plush office. "They get _this_. But, no matter what your potential, you aren't going to meet it in Team Seven. I've watched you for quite some time now and I believe - I fully believe - I see a brilliant agent, a brilliant _man_ \- struggling to come to the surface amongst just too many people trying to hold you back. Maybe they do it with the best of intentions, I don't know and won't try to guess. But you're never going to become the man you can be with all of Team Seven around you."

Then, before JD could even catch his breath, Montgomery went on, his words tearing away at JD's already-shaken world.

"I'm worried about them, too. All of them. They try too hard to keep you out of things, protect you. They put themselves at risk for it."

JD gasped, feeling the words tearing away at his heart.

"To be honest, JD, I think - I _know_ \- you need to transfer away from Team Seven. From Denver, for that matter. For both your sake...and your friends."

 _tbc..._


	28. Chapter 28

**Part 27**

Chris let the door silently close as he slipped back into Buck's cubicle. The night nurse, Amy, was there at Buck's bedside, checking his vitals. "How's he doing?" He asked in a whisper.

She didn't answer until she'd finished taking Buck's blood pressure, pushed a button to elevate the head of his bed, and stripped off her latex gloves. "No fever, pulse and breathing are stronger. His lungs are pretty congested though. RT will be in here to give him a breathing treatment soon-" She stopped at Chris' unconscious surge forward. "Agent Larabee?" she asked cautiously.

Chris looked down, realizing his hands were clenched into tight fists. "I'm...sorry. It's just that - the man who poisoned him, he got to him by posing as a respiratory therapist, said he was giving him a breathing treatment."

Amy blushed. "I'm sorry, I knew that. But Ryan is coming up to do Buck's treatment. And I can vouch for Ryan." She smiled. "He's my husband."

Chris nodded. He probably ought to apologize again but damned if he was going to. There had been two attempts on Buck's life since he'd been in this hospital - one by the nurse, the day Chris thought he'd seen Sarah. And then the poisoning that had brought him so near to death. Not counting the smoke bomb. Chris wasn't leaving Buck alone again, at least not for a very long time.

 _'And even that might not be enough,'_ a nasty little voice nagged deep inside his head. Nathan had been by Buck's side when the false respiratory therapist had waltzed into his room. Chris knew that Nathan would have stopped the killer if he'd had any inkling he wasn't who he'd purported to be. Bolo Orlowski was devious.

If it _was_ Bolo. If it was _just_ Bolo.

Chris was starting to think there were multiple killers after his men. After Buck and Ezra. If he wasn't so tired, if his brain wasn't so foggy - there _had_ to be something he was missing. Some link.

It had all started with the bombing.

No, Chris corrected himself, straightening up in his chair. It had started _before_ the bomb blast that destroyed Buck and JD's home. Or had it? The food poisoning...Buck backing out of the trip to Wyoming. Something had caused Buck to change his mind about the trip. Chris had known that all along. He'd planned to confront Buck about it - about whatever had been bothering Buck since -

Since -

That last case. What was it? Hoyt. Marcus Hoyt.

Chris felt like the sun had just risen. Hoyt. Kevin Murine, the lab tech who had stolen the T-27 from Monica Hastings's lab, had gone to college on a scholarship set up by Hoyt. The nurse - Ava Sanchez or Morales, whatever - who had tried to kill Buck by injecting air into his IV, she too had gone to school on a Hoyt scholarship.

And Ezra had been talking with the ADA about the Hoyt case just before someone tried to run him down in the parking garage.

Buck moaned deep in his throat and moved his head restlessly against the pillow. Chris looked up, alert. "Buck?" he asked softly. "You with me, Pard?"

He waited, hoping to see Buck's eyes open, but nothing happened. Buck made no more noise and he was still. Chris waited, hoping.

Finally, he let his breath out in a deep sigh. "Guess you're just not ready to wake up yet. Never knew you to be so lazy, Buck." He tried to grin, even managed it. Chris sat down again and reached through the metal railings to grasp Buck's hand, careful not to disturb the IV. "Hoyt died in that jailhouse scuffle," he said, speaking out loud. "But - I don't know, Buck, but it just doesn't seem likely that a low-life hood like Hoyt would hire Bolo Orlowski. And it had to be Orlowski that took out your place, either him or the world's best copycat. I don't think Hoyt would have enough _cajones_ to get messed up with Bolo. Intel says Bolo is in retirement. Nothing we have on Hoyt indicates he's in Bolo's league. Besides, if he had Bolo working for him, why send a couple of kids out to kill you and Ezra? Why try that hit and run in the parking garage? That can't have been Bolo, way too sloppy and not his MO at all."

He paused, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on the back of Buck's hand. "Maybe I'm wrong," he said slowly. "But I can't help but think there's more to this. I think this has something - some connection - to Sarah and Adam's deaths. And Buck, I have a feeling you know what that connection is. Maybe you don't _know_ you know it, but somewhere, deep inside...Cap'n Nate had the idea you'd been doing your own investigation on Sarah and Adam's murder, all along. Said that was the only reason you went over to the bomb squad. And he seems to think you never stopped looking for the answers. So somewhere, you have a lot of information. Maybe it blew up in the apartment, maybe it didn't. But it's somewhere inside your head." He tightened his grip on Buck's hand. "We're going to look for it, Buck. We're going to figure this out. Not just because I need to know, or to finally get justice for my - for _our_ family. But also because until we know, until the people are punished, you'll never be safe. And I need you to be safe, Buck. Safe and here with me. All of us do. So we're going hunting.

"But this time, Buck, we do it together."

"All of us."

Startled, Chris looked up to see Vin leaning in the doorway. "Vin! I didn't hear you. Where's-" he stopped in mid-sentence as he took in the look on Vin's face. "What?"

Vin came in slowly. His eyes lingered on Buck for a minute, seeking something, Chris wasn't sure what. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned back to Chris. He pulled a crumpled envelope out of the pocket of his jacket. "You need to read this, Chris. And then, I've got all of Buck's stuff on Bolo. You're right. There's a hell of a lot more to this than just Marcus Hoyt."

 **7777777**

JD exited from Montgomery's office and made his way slowly down the hall to the elevators. He pushed the button and the door opened immediately. Stepping inside and pushing the button for the seventh floor, JD leaned back and stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

Memories of the recent scene in Montgomery's office whirled around in his head.

 _JD stared, mouth open, at the AAD. "I...I don't understand. What do you mean it would be in all of our best interests if I quit Team Seven?"_

 _Montgomery sighed, pulling a large folder into view. "Team Seven has the highest injury rate of any team in the country, did you know that?"_

 _"We also have the highest solve rate in the country," JD fired back._

 _"The two things are not mutually exclusive." Montgomery tapped the file. "Investigators have come to the conclusion that one of the reasons for the high injury rate is that six men are protecting the seventh."_

 _Silence._

 _"You mean-" JD's voice failed and he had to clear his throat. "You mean they're protecting me?"  
_

 _Montgomery shrugged. "Don't you feel that way? I noticed you are rarely in the thick of things. You're usually in the surveillance van. Have you ever even gone undercover?"_

 _Face burning, JD shrugged. The memory of his only undercover assignment - when he'd nearly gotten himself and Ezra killed - caused his stomach to roil bitterly._

 _"Of course, you are a computer expert. Actually, I understand you are the best the ATF currently has. Upper management thinks you should be in a position where that genius can be fully utilized. I understand you turned down a transfer to the DC office?" It was JD's turn to shrug. He'd never taken the offer very seriously, any more so than he'd taken any of the other offers he'd received since he'd joined the ATF._

 _"I assume that means you would rather be a field agent?"_

 _"Yeah. I mean, I guess. I never thought of it. I just wanted-"_

 _"Wanted to stay with Team Seven?" Montgomery sighed. "And when there isn't a Team Seven anymore, what will you do then?"_

 _JD stared at him. "That won't happen." His voice sounded shaky and doubtful to his own ears._

 _"Of course it will. Something with that much fire burns out, usually sooner than later. Even providing Agents Wilmington and Standish both survive their current injuries, eventually Team Seven will fall apart. I just hope you'll all be alive when the end comes."_

 _"The guys won't leave," JD declared, his voice uncertain. He wanted to say 'We're family,' but he felt uncomfortable declaring that to this man._

 _"Yes, they will. Team Seven is a port in the storm to those men. But the storm will stop and everyone will go back to their own lives. Standish is just here to mend his reputation so he can be accepted back into the FBI. He's overqualified for the position he has now_ _ **and**_ _he knows it. He wants a SAC position so badly he can taste it. Tanner? The Federal Marshals want him back and are willing to pay for him. Nathan Jackson is, essentially, a healer. Sooner or later, he'll find some way to go back to medical school or a hospital position. I know that he and his lady plan on marrying as soon as she_ _finishes school, and then it's his turn."_

 _It all made a terrible kind of sense to JD. He knew Nathan wanted to be a doctor, or even a full-time paramedic. He'd seen the longing in his eyes when he talked about having to drop out of med school. But-_

 _"Buck would never leave," he declared, saying a prayer that Buck wasn't leaving right now. He knew Montgomery was thinking the same thing but the man didn't say it. Instead he leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers._

 _"Wilmington and Larabee have been close friends for a long time. Most of their lives. Where one goes, the other one follows."_

 _JD frowned. "That's not right."_

 _"Isn't it? They've known each other since high school."  
_

 _"High school?" JD echoed. That couldn't be true. Could it? Buck would have told him._

 _"They both joined the Navy after college, ended up as SEALs together."_

 _"Buck was a Navy SEAL?" JD whispered._

 _"Came back to Denver and both joined the DPD. Then over to the ATF."_

 _JD just stared at him. He didn't know what to think. Why hadn't Buck ever told him - was Montgomery telling the truth? It'd be easy enough to check. Why_ _ **hadn't**_ _he ever checked Buck's background?_

 _Because he'd never thought there was anything Buck hadn't told him. But now, come to think of it, there_ _ **were**_ _gaps in his history. Given Buck's age, and the length of time he was on the police force, there were years unaccounted for between his graduation from college and the police academy. JD knew Buck had been in the military, the Navy, but he never talked about it..._

 _And he'd never mentioned he'd known Chris most of his life._

 _Montgomery kept talking. JD could barely hear him over the pounding in his head. "Just think about it. If you want to stay with the ATF, you're going to have to start accumulating a better record than you have." He paused. "There are positions available in San Diego — I'm arranging for Bobby Fewell to go there," he made a face. "Instead of wasting his talent in Boise, of all places. Consider taking a temporary assignment there with him, Agent Dunne. With two agents down, Team Seven will be on the sidelines for a few months. It might be a good time to try something different. If nothing else get some variety on your record."_

JD barely remembered leaving the AAD's office. His mind was overcome with everything he'd heard. He couldn't seem to make sense out of it. The elevator doors opened and he wearily trudged toward the office.

He felt sick. His heart shattered.

Buck had lied to him.

Buck had been lying to him all along.

 **7777777**

Ezra stirred, turning his head. Light beat on his closed eyelids and wearily, he wished someone would close the blinds. Blinds? What time was it?

Where was he?

With awakening came pain, deep and sharp and cold as the knife that had cut him...

Cut him?

With the pain came the memories, flooding back into his unguarded mind, terrifying and terrorizing.

 _Where was he?_

That man, the blond one - his tortured mind dragged up the name. Wyerly.

David Wyerly.

Was he here? Was he?

He heard a noise, felt a hand grip his, and shot fully awake in a surge of pain and fear. He had to get away-!

"Ezra!"

A voice. Ezra pulled away, only slowly realizing he knew that voice.

A voice that brought comfort, safety, instead of fear.

Someone touched his hand again, gently this time. "Ezra, come on and open your eyes. It's okay. You're safe here in the hospital. I'm right here."

Still shrouded in blackness, he searched for the identity of that voice.

Nathan...Nathan.

"Nathan?" His voice was small and frail. He swallowed hard, only then registering his dry mouth and the searing pain in his throat.

The hand holding his tightened. "Yeah, it's me. You're okay, Ezra. You're safe."

Safe, yes he was safe. He and Nathan might not always get along, but he was always safe when Nathan was there. Nathan or any of his teammates. They'd taught him a long time ago that one of them was always there to watch his back. He remembered then, the last horrible freezing minutes in the cabin, remembered as from a million miles away. The sound of guns, yelling. Knowing that his teammates had come, that they'd looked for him, searched and searched until they'd found him. He started to tell that to Nathan but his mind couldn't seem to communicate with his mouth and only part of it came out. "You came..."

"We came? _Of course_ we came, you idiot. Do you think we'd just leave you up there?"

Ezra forced his frozen lips into a smile. "Of course not," he whispered, closing heavy eyelids again. "I never had the slightest doubt that you all would appear for a timely rescue." The sentence took all his breath and he breathed in deeply through the oxygen tubing.

He heard a snort, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "Could have been a little more _timely_ but we did the best we could, Ezra."

"And that - as usual - was enough." Ezra felt sleep pulling at him. There was something else, something he needed to ask Nathan, something important. He forced his eyes open, struggling to remember.

Nathan must have seen the struggle. His other hand came up to rest on Ezra's shoulder, gripping it gently. "Buck's going to be okay. You hear me? They found the antidote to the poison. He's going to make it. And the rest of us are fine. So you just go back to sleep and let yourself heal."

Ezra gave up the fight and let his eyes close again. He thought he might have smiled again, but the soft darkness rushed up to claim him before he could be sure.

 **7777777**

Nathan felt his shoulders relaxing as Ezra slipped back into sleep. Ezra's vital signs had stabilized and his heartbeat was near normal. Now, since Ezra had spoken to him, Nathan hoped this meant the worst was over.

He straightened up, feeling muscles tight with tension. With a nod to the attending nurse, he slipped from the room. They'd be moving Ezra soon, now that he was stable, probably to a room on the Cardiac wing until they knew for sure there was no damage to his heart. Monica Hastings had disappeared with a cardiologist and Nathan hadn't heard what they'd discovered.

He headed for the coffee pot, glancing up at the clock as he moved, then down at his watch, making sure it was correct. As he watched, the digital readout changed to 12:01 a.m. The date flipped over. It was tomorrow already.

Tomorrow...today.

The date. Today - yesterday's date.

His exam, the paramedic recertification exam. He was supposed to have reported for the test at noon on the fifteenth.

It was now the sixteenth.

"Oh shit," Nathan barely could hear his own words over the roaring in his ears.

He'd missed the damned test...

 **7777777**

Josiah slanted his eyes toward his passenger. JD had been silent since joining Josiah for the trip to the hospital. Josiah had immediately told him the good news about Buck, but he was surprised by the response. JD had grinned widely at first, but the smile almost immediately dimmed and soon had vanished altogether. Now his face - as illuminated in passing streetlights - was set in harsh lines that should have made him appear older but instead seemed to rob years from his face.

Someone had to break the silence. Josiah cleared his throat in preparation for speech. "What did Montgomery have to say?" he inquired.

JD started, then shrugged. To Josiah, it appeared as if the younger man was trying too hard to appear nonchalant. "Just wanted to - said that - wanted to talk about-" he stopped suddenly, then shrugged again. "Just some stuff," he added vaguely.

Josiah stopped at a red light, not for the first time mentally bemoaning the necessity for stopping at a deserted intersection. "Stuff?" he asked, gently accelerating the old Suburban as the light changed to green.

JD didn't say anything.

Josiah hazarded a guess. "Did he want to talk about the shooting?"

That got JD's attention. He turned in his seat so he was facing the older man. "No. Not that."

Josiah had an idea, now. "JD. You know you had to shoot Wyerly, don't you?"

"Yeah. I know." JD's voice sounded too calm, too even. "He was going to kill Ezra. I'm okay with it."

Now Josiah was _really_ worried, and confused as well. JD wasn't reacting anything like he'd expected, with his lack of response about Buck and his seeming lack of concern about the shooting. Josiah well remembered how devastated the younger man had been the first time he shot someone in the line of duty - and that had been only a flesh wound. Before he could say anything, JD abruptly asked, "Is he still alive?"

Josiah nodded. "Yes. He's critical, though."

JD sighed. "I had to do it," he said again. "He was going to kill Ezra."

Since that was exactly what Josiah had been thinking, he couldn't decide why he was so disturbed to realize the shooting apparently _was not_ the reason for JD's bizarre behavior.

 **7777777**

To JD, the whole drive - hell the whole day - seemed surreal, everything blocked and overwhelmed by the memory of his conversation with the AAD. He couldn't even figure out what bothered him more: the implication he wasn't carrying his weight on Team Seven or the idea that Buck had a whole history with Chris he'd never mentioned.

How could Buck have known Chris since high school and never told JD? Been a Navy SEAL? _Why?_

He'd thought he and Buck were close - closer than best friends, even, more like brothers. Buck was the big brother he'd always wanted. And the best friend a guy could have. He'd told Buck everything about his own life: growing up poor in Boston without a dad, the jeers and derision of his schoolmates because he was smaller and younger but always so much smarter. Going to Boston U and MIT- expensive schools peopled with the children of the rich - on scholarships that left nothing over for a night out with friends or even a meal. And worst of all, watching his beloved mother dying - slowly, in pain - - just as he should have been emerging into independence and his own life. Losing her, being left alone with only her memory and a mountain of her medical debts.

He thought Buck had told him all about _his_ life, as well. But now he realized he didn't know much of _anything_ about Buck's past. Buck told a lot of stories, but about frivolous things. Women. Wild adventures with Chris when they were cops; stories that made Chris roll his eyes or even just shake his head. Were they true?

Things he had assumed to be true were now revealed to be false.

Could he trust _anything_ Buck had ever told him?

"How long do you think Buck and Chris have known each other?" he asked, shattering the brittle silence.

After a long pause, Josiah said slowly, "When I joined the team, Buck told me that he and Chris had been partners together in the DPD."

"But-?" JD prompted, hearing something unsaid.

Their profiler sighed. "But. From the way they act toward each other - some of the things they say, just in general conversation, I would guess they've been friends for a long while. Before joining the DPD. I think they probably knew each other when they were kids. And, I think they've been close probably as long."

JD let out pent-up breath. "That's what Montgomery said," he murmured. He leaned back in his seat. "But why, Josiah? Why would they lie about it?"

Another pause.

"I wouldn't say they _lied_ , really," Josiah said slowly. "Rather they - or Buck, since Chris doesn't like to talk about _any_ of his past - told the truth, just not all of the truth."

"A lie by omission is still a lie," JD replied hotly.

"Maybe. Maybe they just didn't think it was any of our business."

JD felt his hackles rising. "But why-?"

Josiah sighed. "JD, there could be a lot of reasons. One is that Buck - for all of his chatter and stories - really doesn't talk that much about his life. Oh, he gives the appearance of doing so, but he really doesn't. I would imagine you know more about Buck than any of the rest of us. Except for Chris, of course."

"I thought I knew him," JD said. "Montgomery said Buck and Chris were in the SEALs together. Buck knows that-" he couldn't say how exciting he'd thought Chris' SEALs duty was, how it had just added to the hero-worship he'd carried about the man. "Why wouldn't he talk about it? Isn't he proud of it?"

"JD, do you remember when Mary Travis was trying to get Chris' background for that article she was writing for the Denver News-Clarion? She came to Buck when she couldn't get anything out of Chris?"

JD frowned. He remembered that, vaguely. It had been right after he'd joined the team. "I read that article. Buck didn't tell her anything she couldn't have found out on her own."

"I know that. But when Chris found out Buck had talked to her at all, he was furious. I've never seen him that angry, before or since."

JD remembered Buck coming home one night with bruises on his face and neck. And the next day Nathan had insisted on sending him to the hospital for X-rays when he'd got a look at Buck's swollen hand. There'd been two broken bones and he'd worn a cast for a month. And Chris had shown up at work with a bruised jaw-

JD gasped. "You think Chris beat him up about it?" He demanded in an outraged tone.

"I didn't say that. I imagine Buck gave as good as he got. But I think they definitely had it out."

Fury roared up in JD, thick and bitter and he could taste it. Sometimes he hated Chris Larabee for the way he treated Buck. Knowing it had been going on for so long made it somehow worse. But before he could say anything, a small voice whispered in his mind, _'Buck takes it. Buck takes it and comes back for more.'_ And he could hear Montgomery saying _"They've been friends for more than half their lives."  
_  
He didn't say anything more to Josiah. He couldn't. He curled into himself, trying desperately to recover his emotional footing.

His world was shattering and he feared soon it would soon crash around his ears.

 _tbc..._


	29. Chapter 29

**Part 28**

Vin left Chris alone with Buck and started looking for the rest of the team. A quick stop at the information desk - and a shy smile at the tired "Pink Lady" there - yielded him the news that Ezra was still in Trauma One. "He should be transferred soon," the worker volunteered.

"Where?" Vin questioned.

She squinted tired eyes at the computer. "Hmmm. Doesn't look like they know yet. They're holding two rooms - one in CICU, one in ICU."

CICU, Vin had learned from Ezra's _last_ trip here, was Coronary Intensive Care Unit. Trauma ICU, which everyone just referred to as ICU, was where Buck was.

Why would Ezra need CICU?

Anxiety giving him the energy to move his exhausted body, Vin quickly moved through the maze of hospital corridors, down an elevator and finally to the Trauma units. In the crowded waiting room, he looked around for anyone he knew.

His eyes fell on a sofa.

Had it only been a few weeks ago he'd been sitting on that sofa, bruised and bleeding from the explosion that had demolished Buck and JD's home, waiting to see if Buck was going to live or die? So much had happened...

He saw a familiar figure sitting in a corner chair. Monica Hastings bent over at the waist, her dark hair cascading forward to cover her face. "Monica?" he asked, sitting beside her.

She straightened up, shoving her hair back with unsteady hands. "Vin! I didn't know you were here."

Vin studied her, seeing the tight lines of strain around her mouth, the shadows darkening under her eyes. "Just got here. You look worn out."

She glanced up at him, a tiny smile quirking her lips. "Translation: I don't have any makeup on and I look like something the cat dragged in?"

Vin grinned in turn. "Don't think you could _ever_ look that bad."

"Sure I could." She leaned toward him and it felt so right, so necessary, for Vin to slip his arm around her shoulders.

"Heard what you did for Buck," Vin said quietly. "Thank you for saving his life."

Monica nodded. "You're welcome. I'm glad I could help." As if she'd just realized that she'd been leaning on him, she straightened up, cheeks coloring a pale pink. "Maybe it makes up a little for the fact _my_ drug keeps trying to kill _another_ friend of yours."

Vin frowned. "You mean Ezra? What're you talking about?"

"He has an erratic pulse. They called me in to see if it's the T-27 causing it - if it could have permanently damaged his heart."

Vin sucked in a breath. "Is it?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so...I've looked at those strips until I thought I'd go blind. There isn't _any_ similarity to the patterns we saw during the blind trials." She sighed. "Hypothermia _does_ put a strain on the heart, just in and of itself. That's probably what's going on here. But just the thought that _my_ drug could harm him again - I'm starting to wish I'd never invented the damn thing!" Tears sparkled in her eyes.

Vin hesitated, then slid an arm around her slender shoulders agaib. "Don't say that," he all but whispered, his lips close to her ear. "Don't ever deny your gift. You invented that drug to save people - and it _will_ save them. Not your fault Kevin Murine used it to try to kill Ez."

"Who?" She rested her head on his shoulder.

Vin was startled. "Murine? The tech that stole the drug?"

"Oh, of course." She met his puzzled gaze. "I forgot - I've been so busy blaming myself for what happened, I forgot who the _real_ criminal was."

Vin stared down into her eyes, seeing nothing but honesty and caring. The sudden tension eased from his shoulders. He pulled her a little closer. It felt so natural, so good to hold her...

"Vin?"

He straightened up at the familiar voice saying his name, turned but left one arm around Monica. "Josiah. Glad you're here - JD. You remember Monica?"

JD managed a half-hearted nod. Josiah strode forward, capturing her small hand in his huge one. "Dr. Hastings. We are so grateful for your help."

JD rolled his eyes. "You asked her yet, Vin?" His voice was hostile.

"JD. The woman just saved Buck's life."

"Ask me what?" Monica asked, puzzled.

JD stared her down, his eyes cold. "You know a David Wyerly, Dr Hastings?"

To Vin, it was as if he weren't even listening to JD, more like he was listening to Chris back in the beginning, when the team was first formed, when Larabee was all ice. Back before the seven of them had formed more than a team, a family.

He was still holding Monica, so he felt her jump. "David Wyerly?" Her voice was puzzled, confused. "I have a cousin - why are you asking?"

JD kept staring at Monica, his face wrapped in a look of ugly triumph. He didn't answer and neither did Josiah. Monica turned to Vin, her expression imploring. "Vin?"

"Monica. The man that kidnapped Ezra...tried to kill him, was named David Wyerly."

Shock, followed by disbelief, spread across her features. "You can't mean...I mean...it must be someone else! David wouldn't - why would he -"

"We found Ezra on a piece of property listed as owned by Steven Curran." There was still that ugly note of triumph in JD's voice.

If possible, Monica's eyes got even bigger. "Steven -" she whispered.

"Another relative of yours?" JD snarled.

"That's enough, JD!" Josiah's voice rang with seldom-used authority.

Monica gently pulled away from Vin. She straightened her shoulders. "Steven Curran was my cousin."

"Seems like you might have mentioned that earlier," JD snapped. Josiah looked like he couldn't make up his mind to strangle or hug the youngest agent.

Monica's eyes flashed with temper. "I loved my cousin, but he was killed while engaged in a criminal activity, Mr. Dunne. It might seem strange to you, but I rarely mention that to people I have just met - especially when I meet them under the circumstances I met all of you."

"You saying you don't know who killed your cousin?"

"All I know is that it was an federal agent. That's _all_ I know." She stood up, her chin rising and eyes sparking fire. "Is David in jail?"

There was an awkward silence. Finally Vin broke it. "No, Monica, he isn't in jail. He's here."

She turned to face him. "Here? In the hospital?"

"I shot him," JD said.

The color drained from her face. She staggered back a step. "Is he - is he -"

"Monica!"

They all turned at the authoritative voice. Standing just inside the waiting room was a tall man, with silvery hair and a military posture. At his side was the petite figure of Nina Wyerly.

"Uncle Arthur," Monica squeaked.

Uncle Arthur. _'Oh shit,'_ Vin thought dizzily. "Arthur Curran," he said aloud.

Curran favored him with a glance that one might have expected to be bestowed on a cockroach. "Monica," he said again, pointing to the spot next to him, opposite Nina. Vin tried to catch her hand but Monica moved away, face colorless and set in stone. She slowly walked to her uncle's side. When she was still a few feet away, the older man reached out and grabbed her upper arm in a grip tight enough to leave bruises, and dragged her the rest of the way. He fixed steely eyes on the three ATF team members. "And you gentlemen are...?"

Nina filled the silence. "The one with long hair is Vin Tanner. I don't know the other two."

"Josiah Sanchez," Josiah said. He gestured to JD. "And this is -"

"Oh, I know who _he_ is. The man who shot my nephew. In the back, I understand." The man's voice was coldly polite.

"Uncle -" Monica started.

"Shut up, young lady. When I want to hear from you, I'll tell you to talk."

That was too much for Vin, and, from the looks of things, Josiah as well. They both started forward, stopped only by the imploring expression Monica shot them. "Please! It's all right -"

"Is someone here for David Wyerly?"

As one, they all turned to the owner of the voice, a tired-looking Dr. Culver. Curran strode forward, dragging both women in his wake. He spoke quietly to the doctor, and then followed him through the double doors. Just as she entered the doors, Monica looked back one last time at Vin. Her eyes were frightened, but, as Vin started to move toward her, the double doors slammed shut.

There was brittle silence between the three friends, broken first by JD's snort. Before he could say anything, Vin whirled on him and pinned him in place with a gimlet stare. "Don't say anything, JD! Not one thing. The woman just saved your best friend's life. That means something to _me_ , even if it don't seem to mean shit to _you_."

Vin stormed out of the waiting room.

"JD," Josiah sighed tiredly.

"No damn it, I don't want to hear it!" JD jumped to his feet and rushed out of the waiting area, fortunately going in the opposite direction from Vin.

Josiah dropped down onto one of the too-soft seats. He shook his head. "Help us, Lord," he said quietly. "We are falling apart."

 **7777777**

Chris came down the hall, carefully carrying a Styrofoam cup of the steaming coffee he'd pilfered from the nurse's station. It was hot and strong but not as bitter as the stuff from the machines.

A uniformed cop at Buck's door flicked his eyes at him, reaching back to push the door open. "Detective Larabee," he murmured, his voice almost shaking.

He hadn't been _"Detective Larabee"_ in years, but Chris didn't correct the kid. Probably his and Buck's rep as detectives in Homicide, and later, Major Crimes, impressed this young officer far more than the adventures of any band of federal agents would have. There was little love lost between the Denver PD and the feds. Chris knew full well the cooperation going on between the two entities now had more to do with the fact that the Denver PD still looked upon Buck as one of their own, than anything else.

Chris started into the room, then stopped, really looking at the young officer for the first time. _'God, he looks so young. Wonder if we were ever that young?'_ "No one in or out without approval, right, Officer -" he checked the nametag-"White?"

The young man pulled himself even straighter. "No, sir!"

Chris half expected him to snap off a salute. Feeling a tired grin stretch his lips, he nodded his head and slipped inside the room.

Nothing had changed. Buck still slept on, his face slack, dark hair lank and stringy, beard shadow covering his chin. "Not looking up to your usual standards, there, Pard," Chris said around the sudden lump in his throat.

 _'But he's breathing on his own.'_ He quickly reminded himself.

That was good, and more than Chris could have hoped for even hours ago.

He sat down heavily in the chair that seemed designed to torture his butt. The crinkle of paper reminded him of something. He set the coffee down on the table and pulled the envelope Vin had given him out of his pocket.

 _"For Chris."_

That was all it said, written in Buck's sprawling handwriting. No indication of when it had been written, or why it had been in a satchel stuffed full of files and clippings about the murders of Sarah and Adam Larabee.

From the time Captain Natoli had come into his office with information about Bolo Orlowski - information Buck had requested from him - Chris had known Buck was still working on the case. Cap'n Nate's news that Buck had only transferred to the Arson Squad to keep the Larabee murder case from going cold had been a shock. Chris' temper had kept him from finding out any more that day, and since then Buck's medical condition had gone from bad to worse. Now, Vin had in his possession the evidence that Buck had _never_ stopped working on the case. And the envelope held in Chris' hand might explain what Buck had been hiding from him _\- why_ he'd been hiding it from him - all this time.

And Chris was afraid to read it.

Through the long years of their friendship Buck had always been there when needed, no matter what Chris said or did. Looking back on it now - the fear of Buck's mortality still an acid taste in his mouth - the memory of how Buck had gotten that scar on his neck fresh in his mind, all he could think was that Buck had constantly been the giver in their relationship.

The letter could say anything.

Chris feared it would say what he was afraid of, that Buck would have been better off if he'd never met Chris at all.

He turned the envelope over in his hand again.

Someone was watching him.

Chris looked up to see Buck's dark blue eyes open and watching him.

"Buck?" Chris whispered. He blinked his eyes, hard, cleared his voice and tried again, calmer this time. "Hey there, Cowboy."

He hadn't called Buck "Cowboy" in years. The nickname had come to be Vin's, not Buck's. Just one more thing Chris had taken from Buck in the tortured years after he'd lost his family.

Buck's lips twitched in the shadow of a smile. His eyes never left Chris' face. Chris didn't have to force the smile in response. "How do you feel?"

Buck licked his lips; Chris interpreted the gesture instantly. "Thirsty?" He reached for the cup of ice chips the nurse had left on her last visit. "You can't have any water yet, but how about a spoonful of these?" He used the plastic spoon to gently place some of the ice in Buck's open mouth. The patient closed his lips, savoring the coolness.

After a few seconds, Buck swallowed with difficulty. Chris offered more ice but he shook his head. "Am I still dyin'?" he asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

Chills raced down Chris' back. He took a deep breath, then realized Buck had no idea what had been happening. He shook his head, putting the cup of ice chips down on the rolling table before he dropped it. It took him two tries to get the words out of his throat. "No. They found an antidote to the poison." He managed a smile. "Going to be a while before you can walk out of here, but you're going to make it."

Buck's eyes never left his face. "Thank you," he whispered.

Chris felt tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked them away hastily, then covered Buck's hand with his own. "No," he said honestly. "Thank _you."_

Buck smiled, tightened his fingers around Chris's. "You're welcome," he whispered. "You know I'll never leave you, Chris."

"You just keep remembering that, okay?" Chris could barely choke the words out. "It was too damn close this time."

Buck's eyes drifted back to the cup of ice, and glad for something to do, Chris spooned more into his mouth. "I probably need to let the doctor know you're awake," he started.

Buck shook his head. "Wait a little. Not up to all that pokin' and proddin' yet." His eyes drifted around the room. "You send the guys home?" He frowned. "What time is it, anyway?"

Chris looked at his watch, only then realizing the damn thing had stopped. "It's late...or early, however you want to look at it. The guys are around here somewhere," he added evasively, not wanting to overload Buck with too much information too soon. He offered Buck some more ice.

He'd all but forgotten about the envelope but Buck hadn't. He picked it up from the bed, wincing a little at the movement. Studying the name on the front, his eyes came up to meet Chris's. "Vin gave it to you?"

"Yeah." Chris tried to remember Vin's exact words but they'd vanished into his tired mind. He shrugged. "Vin thinks maybe we need to stop with all the secrets."

Buck took a deep breath, then coughed. He reached up to swipe the oxygen canula from his nose but Chris caught his hand. "You leave that alone," he scolded. He glanced through the window to see the night nurse heading toward the room. "Looks like the nurse has figured out you're awake." He started to stand up, knowing he'd have to give her room to work, but Buck caught at his hand again.

"Vin," he swallowed hard, "Vin's right, Chris. Read the letter." He glanced over at the door as it opened. "I want you to. It's time...time we take down that son of a bitch Bolo. _Together."_

 _tbc..._


	30. Chapter 30

_Author's Note: Many thanks to those who have hung in during the long break between updates. I'm almost afraid to say it but I hope I'm on track to keep updating regularly until finished_

 **Part 29**

Vin stormed down the hospital corridors, not even noticing when people prudently stepped out of his way. He didn't hear his name being called, until someone grabbed him from behind and swung him to a halt. "Vin!" Nathan said loudly. "What's wrong? Is it Buck?"

Vin stared at him. "Huh? What about Buck?" Then he realized his rushing through the halls had startled Nathan. "No. I mean, I haven't heard anything new about Buck. Chris is with him. What about Ezra? I thought you were staying with him?"

Nathan let out a deep breath and leaned back against the wall. "Ezra's doing okay. They're getting ready to take him up to ICU - that's where I was heading when I saw you tearing down the hall. So if it isn't Buck, what's wrong?" He studied Vin's face. "You look like you could use a break," he said firmly. "Come on, let's go to the cafeteria."

At this late hour the vast room was mostly deserted. The steam tables and salad bar were closed down for the night but there were still snacks and drinks and one lone cash register open for payment. Vin headed for the coffee pot but Nathan stopped him and instead took two cans of orange juice from the bed of ice they were resting in. They both picked out bagels and cream cheese and settled at one of the tables.

"So -?" Nathan prodded.

"It's JD," Vin exploded. "I don't know what the hell is _wrong_ with that kid!"

Nathan raised his eyebrows. "You mean, besides losing his home, his best friend being in a coma, and having to shoot someone to save Ezra's life? Something _else_ is wrong?"

Vin stared at him, mouth open, then finally shut it and shook his head, smiling a little. "OK, so he's had a rough time. I know that, I really do. But, hell, it hasn't been too great for any of us." He thought of Chris, glued to Buck's bedside, afraid to close his eyes for fear he'd lose Buck. He remembered something Chris had told him once, one night after Larabee had drunk too much and lashed out at his oldest friend. _"He's my soul, Vin. No matter how hard I push he won't leave. And thank God for that. Because if I lose him, I lose everything that makes me who I am."  
_  
"None of the rest of us are JD," Nathan pointed out. "You know how much Buck means to him."

"Yeah, I do. That's why I can't figure out why he would attack the very person who saved Buck's life." Vin _didn't_ understand that. Hell, JD was crazy about Buck. And the feeling was mutual. Vin had always thought JD eased some of Buck's pain from the past. He was an overprotective older brother to their youngest member. And JD thrived under the attention even as he verbally protested against it. Vin figured to JD, Buck was some glorious combination of best friend and big brother and father figure all rolled into one. Hell, JD ought to be down on his knees thanking Monica for saving Buck's life.

Nathan looked puzzled, then his face cleared. "You talking about Monica Hastings? JD _attacked_ her?"

Vin took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "No, not physically, I mean. He didn't touch her. But the way he talked to her… he was damn nasty. All but accused her of being some kind of low life criminal because she's related to -"

"To Steven Curran. And David Wyerly."

"You knew?" Vin stared at him.

"Yeah," Nathan admitted. "Can't believe I didn't put it together before. I did a lot of the background work back when we were getting Ez ready to go under on the Curran case, remember? Learned then Curran was technically an only child but he was raised with three cousins. Can't remember now how it came about - Monica I think was an orphan -"

"Yeah, she is." Vin took a deep drink of his juice, relishing the cold wetness against the aftertaste of too many cups of bad coffee. "Just cause she was related to 'em doesn't mean she's involved in anything illegal."

Nathan shook his head. "No evidence either one of them - Monica or the other cousin, Nina Wyerly - is. Matter of fact they seem to be on the _other_ side. Raine knows Nina Wyerly - not close friends or anything but Nina donates a lot of time to the Legal Aid office. Does pro bono work too, and I guess that's downright shocking in that posh law firm she works at. Hey, you remember the Chanu case? The Cheyenne that was in prison on a rape and murder charge? DNA proved five years later he wasn't the perp."

Vin did know that case; even though the actual crime had occurred before he'd come to Denver. He'd been interested, he'd followed the appeals and the eventual overturning of the verdict closely. "Yeah. She have something to do with that?"

"She had _everything_ to do with it. Took on the case, no charge. And Monica Hastings was involved, too. Did the DNA testing for free; then, when the state wouldn't agree with her findings, she personally took everything to the FBI crime lab and _two_ top notch labs - paid for it all herself." He hesitated. "That's not to say they might not suspect something is wrong in the family, though. Last year Monica bought out her uncle's interest in Riverside Pharmaceuticals. From what I understand, took pretty much everything she had. The forensic accountant we had go over the books after the Murine thing said she's been using the remnants of her trust fund to keep the place going until T-27 is off the ground. Kind of amazes me she was so open with us - that could have hurt her reputation badly."

"You think she suspected something about the uncle?"

Nathan shrugged. "That accountant thought so - said if she just wanted to prove she could stand on her own feet she would have waited until after T-27 was a go. They hadn't even got FDA approval of the final trials when she bought him out."

"That doesn't mean she can prove anything."

"No it doesn't." Nathan studied his face. "You like her, don't you? Haven't seen you this interested in a lady in a long time."

Vin could feel himself blushing. "Bad timing, ain't it? But there's something about her, Nathan...can't explain it. I mean, here she's this brilliant doctor, and I just met her but I can talk to her like...like we've known each other all our lives. She's an important person from a rich family, owns her own business but I just want to hold her and protect her." He paused. "You know, there's not been anyone important since...Charlotte. I thought I loved her but I realized pretty quick it wasn't real. But with Monica, it _feels_ real. It feels, right." He took another sip of juice and slammed the can down. "And I stood there and let her uncle drag her off like she was some misbehaving puppy!"

Nathan was silent for a minute. "Vin," he said finally. "I don't know her as well as you do, but she doesn't strike me as anybody's doormat. And she knows you're here. Trust me, if she needs you, she'll let you know."

 **7777777**

JD scooped handfuls of water over his face. Straightening, he studied his reflection in the mirror over the sink.

A stranger stared back at him. A man who had taken refuge from his own chaotic thoughts in this impersonal bathroom.

JD combed his wet fingers through his lank hair, pushing it back. His face was white in the harsh florescent lights, deeply marked with shadows under his jutting cheekbones. His eyes were sunk back, bloodshot.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept the whole night through. Or eaten an entire meal, not just coffee and whatever he could grab that was fast.

Closing his eyes, he let his head drop, feeling the tension in his shoulders and back.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like himself. JD Dunne, youngest member of Team Seven. A team that was more like a family -

He shook his head, hearing again AAD Montgomery's words. _"Team Seven isn't a family. It isn't_ _ **your**_ _family."_

"But it is, though," he whispered to his reflection. "Buck - the guys - they're the only family I've got now."

He could almost hear Montgomery say, _"Then you really are alone now."_

He pushed himself back from the sink and hastily exited the bathroom. The anger and fear churning his stomach worsened as he sat down on a bench and pulled out his cell phone. Hastily he punched in the number for Casey's tiny apartment in Boulder.

Three rings, four. _Come on, Casey!_

On the sixth ring the phone was answered but it wasn't Casey. Instead he heard the sleepy voice of her roommate. _"Hello?"_

"Alicia, it's me, JD. I need to talk to Casey."

 _"JD?"_ A yawn. _"Do you know-"_ a pause - _"Damn it JD, it's after midnight! I've got a midterm at seven in the morning."_

"I need to talk to Casey, Alicia! Now!"

She responded to the anger in his voice with her own. _"Well, you can't, JD. She's not here."  
_  
"She's at Nettie's?"

 _"No. She's not there either. She's out, JD."_

"Out?" JD repeated.

 _"Yeah. She's out on a date."  
_  
JD couldn't believe it. His first thought was that Alicia was lying to him. They'd never really gotten along and he knew Alicia thought Casey could do better. He'd heard her refer to him as an "arrogant asshole" that placed his girlfriend far behind his work and friends in importance. Seemed like every time he and Casey had a fight, Alicia was behind it.

"Who'd she go out with?" he asked, his voice challenging.

 _"I don't have to tell you that, JD. It's none of your business, anyway."_

"She's my girl. It _is_ my business. You're lying, aren't you?" JD accused.

Harsh laughter came through the phone. _"Jeez JD, what do you expect? You treat her like shit and you've talked to her, what, once since she got back from Florida? And just so you know, she's out with Peter Nichols. I'm hanging up now and don't bother calling back because I'm unplugging the phone."_ There was a sharp click and the phone went dead.

JD stared at the empty phone.

He'd never felt so confused, so alone, so angry in his life.

 **7777777**

Ezra had been transferred to CICU. Vin followed Nathan up to the correct floor, automatically turning left until he sheepishly remembered CICU was to the right, MICU where Buck currently was, was to the left. The wooden doors to both wings were closed and uniformed policemen on duty in front of both. Vin and Nathan pulled out ID and then Vin hesitated. "Think I'm going to go check on Buck and Chris," he said.

Nathan nodded. "Good idea."

"You staying out here for awhile?"

Nathan raised an eyebrow. "You need me to? Josiah's in with Ezra."

"Keep an eye out for JD. Don't think he and Chris need to lock horns right now; neither one of them is up for it, and it won't do Buck any good -"

Nathan was staring past him. "Vin. Isn't that -?" He pointed into the waiting room. Curious, Vin looked inside. Half the lights were off, dimming the room for those that were trying to sleep. Still, there was enough light for Vin to recognize the forlorn figure standing at the window.

Monica.

Quietly Vin moved through the room. Only about a quarter of the sofas and chairs were occupied, and no one else was near the window. Vin came up behind the woman but didn't touch her. "Monica?" he said softly. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't turn to look at him, just continued to stare out the window, absently rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she were cold. "They said...when David comes out of surgery they're going to bring him down here to ICU. I - I had to get away from -" She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

Vin took off his own jacket and started to place it over her shoulders. His keen eyes caught the marks on her arms - reddish-purple already changing to black on her upper arms and around her wrist. "What happened here?" he asked, gently touching one of the marks. His voice sharpened. "Did your uncle do this?"

She nodded, still not looking at him. "My uncle doesn't like the company I've been keeping lately." She clutched his jacket more closely about her. "Oh, Vin. How you must hate me."

Vin gently turned her around. She still refused to meet his gaze. He didn't force her, just pulled her close. She was rigid, stiff, in his arms.

"You ain't done nothing to make me hate you."

She relaxed suddenly, clinging to him. "After what my cousin did to your friend -"

"That was your cousin, girl. Not you."

The top of her head came to his chin. He could feel the wetness of her tears against his skin.

"I should have walked away from them. So many times, I tried. But -"

"Hard to walk out on family, when they're all you've got."

She pulled away but stayed in his arms. She tipped her head up to look into his eyes and he found himself lost in the tear-drenched depths of hers.

"Why is it," she barely whispered, "that I've known you only a few weeks but I feel more connected to you than anyone I've ever met?"

Vin hesitated, then gathered his nerve and lowered his head slightly, so that his lips were just barely above hers. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I feel the same way about you."

His lips touched hers as their bodies molded together.

They kissed for a long time, oblivious to anything else in the world.

 **7777777**

Nathan turned away, deliberately not looking at the two locked into an embrace. He'd had a feeling all along that Vin was more than professionally interested in Monica Hastings. It was something about the way the younger man looked at her, even that very first meeting at the lab, that reminded Nathan of Vin's romance with Charlotte Richmond.

He frowned. _'Hope this turns out better than that did.'_

But surely it would. Charlotte had been using Vin. The knowledge of that had hurt Vin deeply, leaving him almost gun shy over romantic involvements. There was guilt there, too, that he'd walked away from his assignment and left teammates in danger. Even though no one had been seriously hurt - Vin had returned literally in the nick of time - the whole debacle had put a strain on Vin and Chris' deep friendship that took weeks, if not months, to ease.

Nathan looked up as the doors to CICU opened and Josiah came out, shoulders slumped wearily. "Josiah," he beckoned. "How's Ezra?"

Josiah dropped onto one of the low couches. "He's asleep," he said, "but restless. Came out to see if you could switch places with me for awhile."

"No problem." Nathan studied his friend with knowing eyes. "You're exhausted."

Josiah laughed-well it was probably supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a tired sigh. "Who amongst us isn't exhausted, Nathan?"

"I've cat napped here and there," Nathan pointed out. "You lie down here and get some sleep."

"I should probably argue with you - but I'm not going to." Josiah brought his long legs up, curling awkwardly on the short sofa. "Ezra's in three," he muttered sleepily.

"On my way." Nathan stood up, then remembered what Vin had said about JD. He looked over at the other waiting area, saw Vin still embracing Monica. He thought about going over there and saying something and then decided against it. Vin would notice if JD appeared - Vin was never _that_ unaware of his surroundings. Besides, even if he didn't, Nathan couldn't bring himself to believe Chris and JD would get into it. Chris had cooled down by now and surely JD had too.

 **7777777**

Chris looked up as someone stepped into Buck's cubicle. It was Dr. Culver, looking as exhausted as Chris felt. The doctor was wearing fresh scrubs but weariness dragged at his shoulders and the lines of his face.

"Doctor," he greeted him.

"The resident told me Buck finally decided to wake up?"

"Yeah. He's been dozing on and off, just dropped back off a few minutes ago. Well, I _thought_ he'd dropped off," Chris finished as Buck's midnight blue eyes opened again.

Buck's eyes searched for Chris, stopped on him and then shifted to the doctor. His lips turned up in the faintest of smiles. "Hey, doc," he whispered.

"Hello, Buck. Quite good to see you awake again," the doctor chided lightly as he draped his stethoscope around his neck. "Just want to listen to your lungs and heartbeat..."

Buck nodded, eyes drifting shut again before the doctor had finished his brief examination. "Well?" Chris asked, a little anxiously.

"He's quite stable. As the resident, and probably the nurses have told you."

Chris made a face. "Yeah they have, but I hate that word, ' _stable'_. What the hell is it supposed to mean, anyway?"

"Well, in this case, it means Mr. Wilmington is doing amazingly better than he was four hours ago. He's not quite out of the woods yet - we're going to have to watch him very closely, make sure that pneumonia doesn't come back. I daresay the orthopedists will be wanting to take that heavy cast off his leg pretty quickly - start him on some more aggressive physical therapy."

"Already?" Chris asked sharply, then he felt a sheepish grin cross his face at the doctor's glare. "Sorry. Just having a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea he's...better."

"Thanks to Dr. Hastings. You might plan on sending her some flowers." Culver sighed. "On second thought, you'd better not. You know she's a cousin of that gunshot victim you brought in?"

That took Chris a little off guard. "You mean David Wyerly?" His voice grew colder. "How is he? He going to live?"

Culver shook his head. "Probably not. Bullet shattered his spine, did massive internal damage. Miracle he made it through surgery. He'll be down here soon."

"What?" Chris demanded. "You can't put him near Ezra."

"Agent Standish is in CICU, not here. We had a policeman in the operating room with us and I assume there will be more down here. Besides, didn't you hear what I said? The man's spine was irreparably damaged. _If_ he lives - and the odds are against that - he'll never walk again."

Chris heard the censure in Culver's voice and backed down, nodding. He felt no pity for David Wyerly, but Culver was just doing his job - which was to give the same level of care to everyone, both criminals and their victims.

Culver flipped through Buck's chart. "Oh, there is one thing I've been meaning to ask you about," he said, in a different tone. "We had some trouble getting an airway into Buck and you know how difficult the respirator was for him. There seems to be some scar tissue under and around this mark on his neck. I'm assuming it was a fairly severe injury, but there's no mention of anything in his medical record. Do you know what happened? It had to be a very fine, very sharp instrument that caused this -"

Chris felt the air seize in his lungs, as if he were the one that couldn't breathe. For a minute, he didn't see the ICU cubicle but his kitchen that day five years ago. He could see that face, that faceless face that was really Buck, feel the rage and grief tormenting him, see his hands press that shining blade into Buck's throat, see the crimson streams of blood -

"Chris!" It was an anguished whisper.

Chris jerked back to reality, his eyes falling on Buck. His friend was awake again, worried, shaking his head just slightly.

Culver looked at one, then the other of them. His eyes rested on Chris.

Larabee cleared his throat. He could hear a voice, a voice he hardly recognized as his own, saying, "It was a knife, a sharp-edged French boning knife." He swallowed hard and added the last bit, the part that made it so immensely awful. "I did it."

Buck shook his head, then his eyes widened and he stared past Chris, trying to rise up on one elbow.

Shocked, Chris turned to see what had so alarmed Buck.

A powerful blow to his jaw knocked him backwards, tumbling into some equipment. Before he could regain his balance, hands grabbed him, shoving him over again before closing around his throat. His brain seemed to stutter as he recognized his assailant.

JD.

JD in a way Chris had never seen him before, eyes wild and crazy, hair soaking wet in his face and unfamiliar lines and shadows aging him by years.

For a dizzying moment, Chris thought he was looking into a mirror, realizing how he must have appeared to Buck that morning so many years ago.

"You son of a bitch!" JD raged, cold tears glittering in his eyes. "I'll fucking kill you!"

 _tbc..._


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: I am embarrassed and really, really confused. I could have sworn I posted this part two weeks ago, at least. It wasn't until I went to post the next chapter I realized that according to the site, this chapter never posted. My apologies!_

 **Part 30**

JD stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, leaning his head into the chill, moisture-laden breeze. Spring in Denver this year was as wet and cold as the winter that had preceded it.

The streets were dark and quiet in the early morning hush. Behind him the hospital stretched across four blocks, lit and bustling regardless of hour. After his phone call with Alicia, JD had felt driven to escape the overheated corridors, his desperate search for balance leading him out into the cold night.

He walked quickly, an almost-jog, up the gentle rise another block, stopping when he came to a pocket park - an empty lot between two buildings turned into a small playground. For a minute he just looked around, then walked slowly over to three swings descended from metal bars over a sawdust-filled area. Selecting the middle swing, he pushed off with his feet and felt the sway of the swing.

He'd always loved to swing. Even before he was old enough to go to school, his mom would take him to the nearby playground in the evenings. Back then she'd been the live-in housekeeper for one of Boston's blueblood families, and they'd lived in their own tiny apartment on the fourth floor of a Beacon Hill brownstone. After the evening meal was served and cleaned up, her time was her own - or rather, JD's. They'd walk, hand in hand, the two blocks through the darkening streets. Little JD would hop onto a swing and his mom would push him higher and higher.

In many ways those were the best days of his childhood. The Harrimans probably didn't pay his mother as much as they could have, but the little apartment was free and their own. JD and his mom ate in the main house kitchen but they ate the same food the family did, and JD was always invited to play with the grandchildren when they came to visit. They had a twice-weekly cleaning service that came in to help his mom. Julia Dunne had always had time to spend with her little boy, and she always managed to save plenty from her weekly check.

JD had been nine when Mrs. Harriman died. He and his mom had suddenly moved away from the Beacon Hill house to a tiny apartment on the Back Bay. His mom started doing daily work, sometimes two or three houses a day. JD didn't understand at first. He knew Mrs. Harriman's daughter-in-law had asked his mom to stay on, he'd heard her. He had still thought of the Beacon Hill brownstone as "home" and was secretly resentful of his mother for making them move.

It was years later - on her deathbed - when Julia Dunne told him why they'd left. Robert Harriman, old Mrs. Harriman's son and heir, had told Julia if she wanted to keep her job, she'd make a place for him in her bed. JD's mom had said, _"He had a different idea than I did of what a housekeeper did. But I'm sorry we had to move, honey. I know that was home for you."  
_  
She'd died before JD could tell her the truth - that his home was where _she_ was.

Now, on a cold night 2500 miles from the city he'd grown up in, he was homeless again. The loft apartment he'd shared with Buck for over two years was gone. He'd been luckier than Buck - there hadn't been as much destruction in his room and he'd reclaimed some clothes and valuables, including his mementoes of his mother. And he'd had his laptop with him. But still, so much was gone. His books and CDs and the big PC they'd shared...the mismatched kitchen stuff and the "good" stuff in one cupboard - beautiful bone china and real crystal that Buck used when he was cooking a meal for a lady. The big screen TV and the shabby comfortable sofa and the two new deep armchairs they'd bought after tax returns last year.

He grinned, remembering the shorts that had hung on a hook on the living room wall. For months he'd had no idea what they were covering up - neither did the other guys. During beer parties and football games there'd been much speculation but Buck just grinned. No one ever offered to see what was there. Then one night, when Buck was in the hospital after a bust gone bad, JD had ripped the shorts off the wall - and found just more wall. It didn't make any sense to him. He'd never asked Buck about it...when Buck was out of danger and coming home, he'd carefully put the shorts back on the wall. It was just part of home...

Home...

 _Nobody in Boston could understand why he'd wanted to leave. Bostonians tended to think Boston was the only livable place on earth. His CO with the Boston PD had just shaken his head. "Why the hell you want to go to Denver, Dunne? You can join the ATF and stay right here."_

 _That had been the day after the open meeting with two ATF agents about the new teams being formed. Regional teams. Remtef, one of the agents had said. A bastardized acronym for Regional Mobile Enforcement Team. Four teams to start off: New York City, Miami, Seattle and Denver. If the teams worked out, and the idea took hold, there would be more teams: Boston - a major port city - was already high on the list for its own team._

 _Why didn't JD just stay where he was and wait for the Boston team?_

 _To JD, his mind was made up when he'd heard one name. Chris Larabee. Former Navy SEAL, former Denver cop, Carte blanch to form his own team in Denver. The minute JD heard that, he'd decided he would be on that team. He_ _ **would**_ _work with Chris Larabee - the closest thing to a real-life hero JD could think of._

 _He'd begun a campaign of emails, letters, long distance phone calls. He'd scored a mild victory when he'd received a call to go to the local Federal Building to fill out forms, go through a fitness test and a psychological battery. He was proud of his marksman scores but he knew, for his size, his hand-to-hand skills could be better. He'd practiced at the BPD academy._

 _Still, when Chris Larabee had flown into Boston for a face-to-face interview, JD's hopes were dashed. Larabee leafed through the thick file, then said, "Tell me the truth, kid. Why do you want on my team so bad?"_

 _JD blundered through some explanation, trying not to stammer, afraid to admit even to himself that his "hero" scared the crap out of him. It was something about the cool voice, or maybe the "take no bullshit" glare. The more he tried to talk, the more stupid he felt, and the colder that green-eyed glare got._

 _Finally Larabee had slammed the file shut. "I'm looking for agents, son. Not a green kid with stars in his eyes."_

 _That hurt because it was so true. But still, anger had given fluency to JD's tongue. "OK, I'm young. And yeah, I think you've done some amazing things, I want to learn from you, be like you. If that makes me a green kid with stars in his eyes, so be it. I think you'd be flattered."_

 _"I don't_ _ **need**_ _flattery, kid."_

 _JD rushed on. "The only cure for being young is getting older. And no matter what, you won't find a better computer guy than me." He wasn't boasting there, well not really - he knew he was damn good. "I'm a good shot, I made high marks at the Academy, and looking as young as I do, I'd be great undercover."_

 _Larabee's eyes widened. "You don't_ _ **look**_ _young, Dunne. You_ _ **are**_ _young, and if you think I'm sending you undercover for at least a year, you're crazy."_

 _JD opened his mouth to argue, then played back what he'd just heard. "Wait a minute. You said...you said...are you saying I've got the job?"_

 _Larabee shrugged, then opened the file one more time and paged through it. "I need a computer guy. You_ _ **are**_ _damn good at that." He hesitated, then mumbled "Damn, Buck is going to never let me live this one down."_

 _"Who's Buck?"_

 _"Buck," Chris answered, putting the folder in his briefcase, "is going to be your own personal mother-hen, kid. And trust me, no one can do it better. I still think your reasons for wanting it are suspect, but you've got the job. How fast can you move to Denver?"_

JD remembered now, that plane trip, pushing his feet against the floor of the plane as if he could make it fly faster, his mind a confused welter of thoughts and emotions.

So his dream had come true. He was an ATF agent, the computer expert assigned to the very first Remtef team. He was working with his idol...

His idol...

JD snorted.

Oh, there were plenty of times when Chris Larabee was everything he'd dreamed he'd be. Especially those first few months, when he couldn't see the man beyond the hero he'd placed on a pedestal.

Chris Larabee could be a brilliant strategist, a crack shot, a hand-to-hand expert and a loyal and supportive leader.

He could also be closed-mouthed, closed-minded, hostile, short-tempered and downright mean.

And all those negative qualities seemed to usually be directed, in spades, toward the man Larabee had once called JD's mother hen.

Buck Wilmington.

Friend, brother, roommate, partner, and yes, mother hen, all rolled up into one.

He gave JD a place to live, no, more than that, a home, for the first time since his mother had died. Maybe since the day a nine-year-old kid had had to pack his battered suitcase and leave that brownstone on Beacon Hill.

And more than that, JD had a family again. All the guys, but especially Buck. There were times - especially when Buck was giving him unwarranted advice on how to handle his love life - when JD longed to find his own place. But somehow those times never lasted very long, and there were a lot more times that JD came home, whipped by the world, to the security and just plain fun of having his best friend, his brother in all but name, at his side.

But as loyal and as supportive as Buck was to JD, he was that and more, to Chris. And Chris, JD felt, _didn't deserve it._

JD wasn't blind. He knew full well that Buck ran interference for the rest of them with Chris. They all knew it. JD remembered once, quiet Nathan exploding to Josiah, "If Larabee ever talks to me like that, I am out of here!" and Josiah's calm response, "And he never will. He won't have to. Buck will always get in the way."

JD didn't understand it. Hell, half the time - more than half the time - it didn't even seem to bother Buck to be on the receiving end of Chris' moods, Chris' bad temper or sarcastic comments. Sometimes though, it did. JD wondered if he was the only one that saw it, saw Buck at pounding his punching bag for hours, or pacing around the living room in the wee hours of the morning. Those times were worse around certain days of the year...days that the other five team members had finally deduced had to do with birthdays, anniversaries, special days in Chris' life and in his family's.

You couldn't talk to Buck about Chris. Buck might get pissed off at Chris sometimes, maybe, but no one _else_ could say anything bad about him without Buck leaping to his defense. Buck insisted Chris was as loyal to him as he was to Chris. Sometimes JD thought he saw that, but most of the time...take the time Vin had been shot and Chris had jumped all over Buck...hell, he'd tried to beat the crap out of him, without ever giving Buck a chance to tell his side. Then it had turned out not to be Buck's fault, and Chris had just gone on like nothing had happened. He'd never even apologized. Well, not where JD could hear, at least.

JD slowed, running shoes scuffing the sawdust below the swing. The cold night air wasn't doing much to clear his head. He stared unseeingly at the lights of Denver, his mind spinning.

Why hadn't Buck ever told him about his past? About his long history with Chris? Damn it, about being a Navy SEAL? JD had always thought Buck told him everything; now he realized how little he knew about his best friend.

Chris would know. Chris did know. He was privy to all that past Buck never discussed with JD.

Chris was the one Buck turned to when he needed help. Not JD. Buck had designated Chris his legal next of kin. Not JD. Not the one who lived with him, who cherished him, who thought of Buck as his brother.

JD shivered, cold from the inside out.

Their apartment was gone. _Home_ was gone. When he got out of the hospital, Buck would go to the ranch with Chris. The ranch was Buck's real home, maybe it always had been.

Where was _JD's_ home now?

Half unaware of what he was doing, he slid from the swing and started retracing his steps to the hospital. Desperately trying to convince himself the fear, the sudden loss that had welled up from deeply hidden scars was untrue. Buck was his friend. His best friend. No matter what was between Chris and Buck...what _had_ been between them, Buck had JD now...

JD had Buck.

Always.

Best friends.

He rode the elevator up to ICU, nodded at the guards on the doors. Walking past the waiting areas, he vaguely noted Vin in a corner, embracing a woman. Monica Hastings. He averted his eyes, still not believing Vin could be interested in that woman.

In ICU he started toward Buck's cubicle. A young cop, his uniform crackling with newness, made as if to intercept him, but the older cop - JD recognized him but couldn't remember his name - stopped the other one and motioned for JD to go on.

As he neared the cubicle he could hear voices. His heart quickened when he saw that Buck's eyes were opened.

Buck was awake!

His step quickened, then he froze as he heard the words-

"There seems to be some scar tissue under and around this mark on his neck. I'm assuming it was a fairly severe injury, but there's no mention of anything in his medical record. Do you know what happened? It had to be a very fine, very sharp instrument that caused this -"

"Chris!" That was Buck. His voice choked, barely more than a whisper. Was he afraid?

Then Chris, the voice cold and emotionless.

"It was a knife, a sharp edged French boning knife." An angry pause, then the voice again, flat, emotionless. "I did it."

Fury rushed through JD, rage so hot and bright and real he could taste it, see it. He started forward. _Chris_ had done _that_ to Buck. Chris had held a knife to his throat and pressed hard enough to see Buck's blood spill over the blade. Chris had injured Buck, an injury so bad it still affected him had caused all that trouble with the airway and the respirator

And Buck _had never told JD_. Even when JD asked about that scar...Buck lied. Lied to protect the one who had hurt him.

His hand curled into a fist, he didn't even feel the pain when he punched Chris. All he could see was that smirk on Larabee's face and feel the desire to wipe it away. To protect Buck. To avenge Buck.

"You son of a bitch!" He could barely hear his voice over the roaring in his ears, but the words sprang from his heart, from the anger and the fear. Tears of rage blinded his eyes. "I'll fucking kill you!"

 _tbc_


	32. Chapter 32

_**Author's Note:** So, this is a pretty significant chapter. Not necessarily because of what happens in it (although I hope the reader finds that significant too) but because of what it is. Chapter 31 is the first chapter written all in 2019. Everything up to this point was originally written prior to July 14, 2002, when I was involved in a car accident that resulted in multiple fractures of my skull and a epidural hematoma, requiring brain surgery. As I have said before, I lost all memory of the story after that and it didn't start to come back until a few years ago. Even then, the thought of having to finish a three (now four) book series that is as multi plot heavy as this one is, not to mention updating everything written to this point so that it wasn't glaringly 17 years in the past, was pretty overwhelming. It wasn't until both my parents died - and a bargain made with Mitzi G - that I committed to it. I have to thank Mitzi, but even more I have to thank my mom. She had been bugging me to get back to this story almost from the minute I told her I'd remembered it. We had a lot of talks before she died and she somehow managed to push for Trinity to be finished every time._

 _With that said, some people have realized that from my AN in the last chapter, this chapter has been ready for some time. Why the delay? Honestly, I lost my nerve. Every night for the last month I've told myself to post this, and every night I somehow came up with a reason I wouldn't/shouldn't/couldn't/didn't. I'm still shaking but I'm hitting the send button! Thank you to everyone who has put up with these long gaps. i can't promise there won't be more of them, but I can say Flames, at least, is essentially finished and just needs polishing and beta-ing. The next book, Ashes, hopefully will be easier since it was just roughly outlined before and I'm not actually having to reproduce anything. Yes, I know where the whole thing is going...but I'm sure there will be twists and turns as we get there!_

 _Many thanks to those who continue to comment and review!_

 **Part 31**

Monica Hastings gently pulled loose from Vin's embrace. She wiped the tears from her face with unsteady fingers. "You always seem to be rescuing me," she said with a shaky laugh.

"I don't mind rescuin' you," Vin insisted. He lightly touched the red marks on Monica's arm. "You need to file a police report."

Monica sucked in a startled breath. "No! Against my uncle? I can't!"

"He grabbed you so hard he left bruises! His own niece. He done that before?"

Monica shook her head. "No." She sensed Vin's disbelief. "Vin, I promise you. He's never hit me before, or grabbed me… not like this. He mostly just… ignored what was going on."

"What _was_ going on?"

Monica sighed. She dropped down into the shapeless chair and looked unseeingly out at the darkness. "My aunt… she couldn't help blame me for what happened to my mother. She — she'd scream at me. Sometimes… well, I told you about my horse. She'd yell at me, try to punish me. Most of the time, Uncle Arthur wouldn't let her do anything too bad, or Steven would distract her." Her eyes, shimmering blue lakes in her pale face, locked with Vin's. "I know… I mean, I know _now_ that Steven was into… criminal things." She shrugged, looking helpless. "But, I can't hate him, Vin, or the memory of him. When I was growing up, he was my protector. He… cared for me." She sighed, her eyes dropping. When she continued, her voice wasn't much more than a whisper. "Can you understand?"

Vin put his arms around her and held her tightly.

 **7777777**

The hospital staff told them they had to leave. They weren't impressed by Arthur Curran's impervious manner, or his forceful demands that he be allowed to stay with his nephew. Nina's legal credentials and the fact she was the patient's sister might have swayed the hospital staff, but neither of those things seemed to matter to the police officers or the federal agents appearing at every corner. David Wyerly was a criminal, a man who had kidnapped a federal agent, put him in the hospital. Nina's comment that _everyone was innocent until proven guilty_ carried no weight with these people and, given the situation, she wasn't really surprised by that.

Finally, her uncle turned on his heel and swept out of the ICU, Nina following. He turned to look at her. "Find your cousin and come home," he said, his voice icy. "I'll meet you there. You'll both spend the night. This family – what is _left of it_ – needs to be together tonight." He stormed away without waiting for her response.

 _'_ _Damn, damn, damn,'_ Nina thought to herself. Damn her brother and his damn stupidity and his inability to follow a plan. _Follow the plan?_ He hadn't even _had_ a plan, much less included she or Monica in it! As ridiculous as Monica's attempt to kill Standish with her own designer drug was, at least she had caught a ride on the clue bus and followed Nina's lead. Arthur Curran wanted Ezra Standish dead, but he didn't want it traced back to him, or any of his family. His own vast empire could crumble because of this. The feds might even look at Monica again and start thinking that maybe Kevin Murine was being used as the patsy he was. The one good thing David had done was get rid of Murine. He'd sworn no one would ever find the body. Hopefully he was better at hiding corpses than he was kidnapping and killing Federal agents…

She wasn't worried about David dying. She couldn't make herself care. David was a screw up, but more importantly, he was _in her way._ She wanted – needed – _deserved_ – to be Arthur Curran's heir, to run his empire when he was gone, _all_ of his empire. The legal and the illegitimate should be left in _her_ hands. She was intelligent, clever, cunning. All those traits that Arthur Curran had himself that had built a billion dollar regime.

And David had _none of those traits._ He didn't even _care_ about the Curran family, the Curran business, the empire. All he cared about was maiming, killing, torturing the man who'd killed his precious cousin Steven.

Uncle _had to know this._ Arthur Curran had to know _she_ was the better choice to be his heir. She'd proved herself. She continued to prove herself. What did David do? Put them all in danger! That's all he'd done.

But David was a man.

Nina walked briskly down the hall, somehow comforted by the click of her heels on the shiny tile floor. Monica had said she was going to the waiting room. She'd be there. Monica was dependable about things like that. Nina could trust her.

She'd never be able to trust David. Even if Uncle Arthur realized Nina was the better choice, passed David over for her, she'd never be able to trust or count on her brother. She knew that.

Best if he just died now. She could portray him as the dirty one, maybe even come up with some evidence that would indicate he'd been working with Kevin Murine, trying to set Monica up for his own crimes. Her steps slowed as she considered this idea. Yes, yes, this was good. If David was gone, out of the way, out of _her way,_ she could blame him for everything. Leave Uncle Arthur, and Monica, and Nina herself clear of any involvement in the attempts on Ezra Standish's life.

Of course, there was still the problem of Ezra Standish himself. Uncle still wanted him dead, and it would be so much more difficult now, to kill him and not leave any trail back to them. But she wasn't worried. There was a way. There was always a way. And with Monica ingratiating herself to Standish's team by saving his co-worker… what was his name, Wellington? No… Wilmington. That was right. Buck Wilmington. And Monica had done that all on her own, showing surprising initiative. If she kept up that kind of thinking, Nina would trust her with more responsibilities. Monica, after all, was a genius. But she wasn't greedy. Monica would play her part.

As for Standish, they would find a way to kill him, because Uncle wanted it. Nina didn't care how it happened, as long as it happened, eventually. It could be quick, painless. She didn't have anything against Standish, after all. Actually, quite the contrary. if it wasn't for the fact that Uncle Arthur had demanded his death, Nina would feel quite warm and fuzzy about the man. After all, he'd eliminated the largest obstacle in her path to running the Curran empire.

He'd killed Steven.

Steven, with his good looks and breezy manner. Steven, his mother's "precious boy" and the apple of his father's eye. Steven who was to the manor born, not just some poor relation grafted onto the family tree.

Nina realized she was clenching her hands into fists so tightly that her perfectly manicured nails were digging little crescents of blood into her flesh. Steven, her cousin.

How she'd _hated_ him.

Not that anyone realized that. Nina was no fool. She knew how to act, how to play the game. How to be the empty headed beautiful blonde homecoming queen her aunt had needed her to be. _"You're just like I was at your age,"_ Aunt Teresa would preen, apparently forgetting that Nina was only related to her by marriage, while Monica was her own blood.

But Aunt Teresa had _hated_ Monica. Sometimes she'd looked at her as if she wanted to kill her. Offenses the other children in the household had gotten away with, or maybe been mildly reprimanded, meant major punishment for Monica. Nina winced as she remembered one incident. Monica had accidentally knocked over a water glass at dinner – or David had deliberately knocked it over, Nina had never been sure. Teresa Curran had flown into a rage that had shocked everyone. Nina hadn't been very old – maybe five? – but she remembered shivering in her chair, shrinking down as her aunt's strident voice had reverberated around the dining room. She'd backhanded Monica across the face, then screamed at her for fully ten minutes, while everyone just stared at the two of them, not touching the food on the plates. Then Aunt Teresa had banished Monica to her room for three days, mandating she was to get nothing to eat, since she was so careless with the food provided to her. Nina could remember Monica just getting up quietly from her place, her cheek red and already bruising, and leaving the dining room. Uncle Arthur had started to say something to his wife, but she'd just quelled him with a blistering glance. Even David, who did nothing but tease and harass Monica, had looked uneasy and even guilty.

But that had backfired on Teresa. Monica was already showing the genius that would earn her admission to Cal Tech at barely sixteen, and she had special tutors and teachers to augment and enhance the education provided by local school system. One of them showed up that very evening and saw Monica's bruised face. Someone – one of the servants, supposedly, although Nina had always suspected Steven had done it – had told the tutor about the three days without food, and the tutor called the police and children's services. Actually, very brave of him, Nina realized now, given the wealth and power her uncle wielded. The resulting investigation was probably not nearly as thorough as it should have been, but Aunt Teresa had been humiliated and Uncle Arthur infuriated. After that, Aunt Teresa had never physically punished Monica again, although the verbal abuse was nothing short of assault.

Then Aunt Teresa died.

And Nina was damn sure Monica had helped auntie off to her _heavenly reward_ quite prematurely. Not that Nina blamed her, one bit. Aunt Teresa was a shrew. _Nobody_ really mourned her passing. Two weeks after the funeral, Uncle Arthur had taken all of them on a yacht trip around the Greek islands. He said it was to ease their grief, but remembering the fantastic time they'd had, Nina suspected it was more of a celebration. It really had been the best two weeks ever. David was even pleasant and affectionate toward Monica…

Speaking of Monica, where exactly _was she?_

Then she spotted her cousin. But Monica wasn't alone. She was with that ATF agent she'd been reeling in. Vin Tanner. But not just talking with him. No, Monica was wrapped in his arms and, although Nina couldn't see her cousin's face, she could see the man's. He was looking at Monica with an expression of… longing? Love? Attraction?

And then Monica pulled back from him, but not away. And she looked at him, into his eyes. Nina drew in a hissing breath.

She'd never seen such a look on Monica's face before. Never.

A look of happiness, of contentment.

Love?

Nina didn't think Monica could really love anyone or anything, except her precious lab, her science.

A memory, long dormant, wiggled into Nina's mind. Monica and her horse, that silly animal she'd lavished so much time and attention on, until Aunt Rachel got rid of it to punish Monica for some imagined sin. Really, when Monica was with her horse was the only time Nina remembered her looking – truly happy – carefree.

The look on her face now –

 _'_ _No,'_ she tried to assure herself. _'She doesn't love him. She can't. She's acting, doing her performance, making him think… all part of the plan. Our plan. My plan.'_

Barely realizing what she was doing, she took a step forward. Monica saw her. Her eyes widened and she pulled herself away from Vin Tanner so quickly she almost stumbled. The ATF agent whirled around, his hand going – well, going for his gun, Nina belatedly realized. His hand dropped away when he realized who she was.

"Nina!" Monica gasped. She looked guilty. Or embarrassed. Nina wasn't sure which. "What – how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Nina answered. She looked at Agent Tanner. She didn't know why, but she suddenly blurted out, "Are you the one who shot my brother, Agent?" She deliberately didn't say his name.

"Nina, don't do this," Monica pleased, stepping toward her. Tanner put his hand on her arm and she stopped in mid-step.

"No, ma'am, it wasn't me," the ATF agent told her, his voice soft and accented. Texas, Nina remembered from the information she'd researched. "But, your brother kidnapped and tried to kill a friend of mine. I'm sorry to have t' tell you this, but it's the truth."

"He wouldn't have killed him," Nina insisted, knowing full well that David had had every intention of killing Standish. "Ezra Standish killed our cousin. David was just trying to – to –" she was making this up as she went along, and it made her uncomfortable. She didn't like working without a script. She shot a look at Monica, demanding her cousin help her out.

"Ezra Standish killed Steven?" Monica said, her voice high, shrill. Her eyes met Nina's.

 _'_ _Are we not supposed to know that?'_ Nina wondered desperately.

"He shot him in the line of duty," Agent Tanner confirmed, reaching for Monica's hand. She jerked it away.

"You're telling me the man whose life I saved… killed my own cousin?"

Relief swept through Nina so suddenly that her knees trembled. Good. Monica was on script. She was still playing her part. And better than Nina had ever credited her with, better than Nina herself was doing. Impromptu, Nina thought. She should have remembered. Monica had done speech and debate as a break from her science studies in school. She'd actually won a couple of trophies. Uncle Arthur had been beaming with pride and even Aunt Teresa had managed to congratulate her niece. And the area she'd been so good at was called Impromptu, when the contestants were given a topic and five minutes to come up with a speech. No writing and memorizing, just speaking off the cuff. And Monica had been amazingly proficient at it. Nina had forgotten that.

Before Nina could say anything, and before she could even think was it her turn to say something, the intercom sounded. _"Code blue, ICU two. Code blue, ICU two."_

Monica turned to look at Agent Tanner. "ICU two? That isn't Agent Standish, is it?"

Tanner shook his head. "No, he's in three." His eyes widened and he shot a look at Nina. "Two… your brother is in Two."

"David!" Nina gasped. She turned back to run to ICU, vaguely aware that Monica and that ATF agent were on her heels.

 **7777777**

 _'_ _I'll fucking kill you!"_

Chris wasn't sure what exactly was happening. One minute, he'd been telling Dr. Culver that _he_ had been the one who had put that cut in Buck's throat. He'd closed his eyes, unable to look at Buck, as the memory played in his mind. He saw Buck's face, the way it had looked that morning, when Chris had smashed him into the wall. His startled face. Chris saw his hand grabbing up Sarah's prized French boning knife; saw himself holding the knife into Buck's neck; remembered – with a burst of nausea – the warm, red blood trickling down on his hands as he pressed the knife into the vulnerable flesh of Buck's throat.

He'd forced his eyes open, looking at Buck, forcing himself to accept whatever Buck's face showed him. He saw the horror in Buck's eyes and started to turn, instinctively knowing Buck wasn't looking at him but at something behind him – when something – someone plowed into him like a truck.

JD. JD was screaming at him, his face red and his eyes flaming, wild expression and hair standing in unruly spikes. "I'll fucking kill you!"

Chris was both taller and heavier than JD, but Chris was exhausted and emotionally drained, while JD was full of fury. And Chris didn't really want to hurt JD, but JD apparently really did want to kill Chris.

Chris shoved JD back, but JD came at him again, fist heading for his face. Chris dodged in time, then slipped around the younger man and tried to grab him from behind, to wrap his arms around him until he calmed down. But JD somehow wiggled free and came after Chris again.

A crowded ICU cubicle is not conducive to two men fighting. Trying to dodge again, Chris tripped over a piece of medical equipment. Losing his balance, he crashed to the floor, with JD right on top of him. Before Chris could get away, JD had his hands fisted in Chris' collar and was banging his head on the floor.

 **7777777**

Buck struggled to sit up, but weakness and pain overwhelmed him and he fell back on the bed, sucking in oxygen through the canula until the blackness surrounding him faded away.

Was he awake or asleep? Because if he was asleep this was a nightmare, and if he was awake… well, it was still a nightmare.

Buck loved JD. The kid was like the little brother Buck had never known he needed or wanted. Having him in his life brought a whole new aspect to it, made it brighter and more fun and somehow, warmer.

But Chris…

Chris was something else. A brother, a friend, a partner, a challenge, a weight to carry sometimes. Both an obligation and a blessing.

He was Buck's oldest friend. Their friendship went back to when they were two high school kids, when Buck was alone and afraid and lost in a world with the sudden loss of his mother. High school, college vacations, Navy, SEALs, the Denver Police Department, the ATF.

Chris was Buck's _home_. His family. The person who took care of him, the person he took care of. Buck had sworn over Sarah and Adam's graves he would take care of Chris, that he wouldn't let anyone hurt him ever again.

He knew JD had heard Chris admitting to cutting Buck's throat. It was something Buck wished the younger man hadn't heard, but he didn't understand why JD was beating on Chris about it. Chris was JD's hero.

Buck had never blamed Chris for what had happened that night. Chris had been drunk. More than that, he'd been lost in his grief and rage; lost in his agony over losing his wife and child. Buck should have moved faster, dodged away, moved the knife away before Chris had grabbed it.

He had to stop JD before he hurt Chris or before Chris lost his temper and started fighting back. Nobody knew better than Buck how lethal Chris Larabee could be when riled.

Dr. Culver was just standing there, staring at the two men in front of him. He winced when Chris stumbled over some contraption and fell to the floor. JD leapt on top of him. But Culver was trapped in the corner and couldn't move, and somehow nobody was rushing in to see what all the commotion was about.

Buck's eyes fell on the abandoned cup of melting ice on the table next to the bed.

Summoning up strength from somewhere, he forced himself to reach up and grab the cup, to heave it at the two battling bodies. The plastic cup full of ice and water smacked directly into JD's back. The shock of the cold hitting him caused him to jump to his feet and whirl to look at Buck.

Culver finally broke out of his trance and leaned over to help Chris up, but Buck's eyes were only on JD.

 **7777777**

Vin stood near the two women outside the ICU cubicle. The curtains across the windows were hastily drawn, hiding the scene within, but it was obvious from the number of people crammed in there, that something urgent was going on. It had been maybe fifteen minutes since the Code Blue call had gone out over the hospital intercom system.

He let his eyes rest on Monica Hastings. She had her arms around her cousin, speaking quietly into her ear. Monica looked quickly up at him and shook her head. She looked distraught. Nina Wyerly, next to her, seemed to be in shock. Her eyes never moved from staring at the closed door.

Then the door opened, and people started coming out. None of them met the gaze of of the two women. Finally, Dr. Kruse exited the room. Vin hadn't even realized he was in there. Taking a deep breath, he stopped in front of Monica and Nina. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "He started hemorrhaging. We tried to save him, but we couldn't. I'm so sorry."

Monica let out a little cry and turned to Vin, still keeping her arms around her cousin. He moved swiftly to hold her. Nina just stared at Kruse. "Are you saying…" her voice seemed to come from miles away. "David – my brother is dead?"

Kruse closed his eyes and nodded. "I'm so sorry."

Vin couldn't feel an ounce of pity for David Wyerly. The man had almost killed Ezra. But he was sorry for the two women who, in spite of everything else, were David Wyerly's family.

"David's…dead?" Nina sounded like she just couldn't believe it.

Tears were streaming down Monica's cheeks. "Nina, I'm so sorry."

"What did you say?" A man's voice, firm and authoritative.

Vin turned and both women startled, matching terrified expressions on their faces.

Arthur Curran stood in the hallway. He ignored Vin, and the doctor, his eyes glaring at his two nieces. "Nina. I asked you a question."

Nina's white lips moved soundlessly.

"Uncle Arthur," Monica said, in a voice just barely more than a whisper.

It was obvious neither woman was going to be able to tell their uncle that Wyerly was dead. Vin cleared his throat, trying to direct the man's attention to him, but then Dr. Kruse gently pushed past the two females and resolutely moved to stand in front of Arthur Curran. Vin was surprised when he called him by name. "Mr. Curran. I'm very sorry to have to inform you that your nephew didn't make it."

Monica and Nina both cringed, clinging to each other. Dr. Kruse stood there. Vin moved between Monica and her uncle. He didn't know how Curran was going to react and he wasn't going to let him hurt Monica as he had earlier in the evening when he'd grabbed her.

Curran didn't say anything for a few minutes. His face was impassive, unmoving, like cold-carved marble. Finally, he nodded. "I'm sure you did everything you could, doctor." His voice was cold.

Kruse nodded. "We did." He looked like he was going to say more, but Curran wasn't listening to him. The older man swung his gaze to Vin. "Who shot my nephew?"

"Uncle –" Monica started. Her uncle ignored her.

His eyes bore into Vin's. "You heard me, Agent Tanner." The name was a sneer. "I want the name of the man who shot my nephew."

Vin shook his head. "I can't tell you that right now. There's an investigation procedure and—"

"An investigation?" Curran exploded. "As there was when my son was murdered? That was your team as well, wasn't it, Tanner? You expect me to believe there will be justice for David any more than there was for Steven?"

"Uncle Arthur!" It was Monica again. "Please, stop it!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Vin saw the two agents who had been stationed outside the door shift uncomfortably. One of them took a step forward, but Vin shook his head. He gently pushed Monica back toward Nina and moved himself closer to Curran. He kept his voice low. "Sir, I know you're upset, but please, don't make a scene here. It won't help David…and your nieces don't deserve this."

Curran met his gaze. "Did you shoot my nephew?"

Vin shook his head. "Wasn't me. But – if I'd had the shot, it would have been," he admitted. "Your nephew kidnapped and tried to kill a federal agent. A friend of mine."

Hatred and contempt crossed Curran's face. "So you say." He stepped back. "There will be justice for my nephew, Agent Tanner. Or…there will be vengeance. One way or another, your team's actions against my family will not go unanswered."

 _tbc..._


	33. Chapter 33

**Part 32**

Pain crashed over Buck like a wave. He gasped for air, hearing an alarm shrieking behind him. Blackness swirled around him, but Buck fought from sinking into it. Culver was suddenly at his side, taking his pulse – even though Buck was dizzily sure that's what one of those annoying monitors that surrounded him was supposed to do. He gasped for breath, searing pain stabbing through his rib cage, and the doctor reached up behind him and twisted a control. "I've increased your oxygen," he told Buck gently. "Just try to relax and breathe."

Chris had scrambled off the floor and started toward him. But JD was still there, and still raging. He grabbed Chris' arm and tried to pull him away. "You leave him alone!" JD screamed, red-faced.

Chris shook the younger man off and stepped to the side of the bed. "Buck?" he asked worriedly.

Buck heard the concern in his oldest friend's voice, but he also saw JD wasn't calming down at all. He shook his head, trying to focus, find his voice.

"Damn you!" JD shrieked at Chris, lunging for him again. Chris whirled around and blocked him.

His heartbeat racing, Buck sucked in short, quick breaths through the oxygen canula. He had to stop this, stop the two of them…

Culver hit a button on the wall. "I need assist in here, STAT," he snapped. He looked at JD. "You. Get out. Now!"

JD opened his mouth, eyes flashing, but then the door slapped open and two nurses ran in, followed by an orderly. The tiny cubicle was too crowded, and Culver motioned to the orderly. "Get him out," he said, pointing to JD. Before Buck could say anything, before he could even think what to say, the orderly hustled JD out the door.

Chris' hand tightened on Buck's fingers. "Hey, old dog, you need to calm down," he said. His voice was gentle, but Buck knew Chris too well, and he could read the anger and rage Chris was trying to hide from him. He shook his head and raised a hand to point to the door. "You need… to talk with him." His voice failed.

"Don't worry about it," Chris soothed.

Culver was injecting something into the IV and Buck had the sinking feeling it was a sedative. The black shadows in the room slipped closer. He found one final burst of energy to squeeze Chris' hand. "Fix…it!" he managed to order, just before the blackness swallowed him and everything fell away.

 **7777777**

JD was hovering right outside the door when Chris exited. There was maybe a hint of remorse in his gaze, but Chris was in no mood to see it. Before JD could open his mouth, Chris opened his and fired out, "What the _hell is wrong_ with you? You're pissed at me, JD, fine, but you damn well don't pitch a scene in front of Buck!"

Any softening in JD immediately disappeared, replaced with a fury that rivaled Chris' own. " _Me?"_ He returned. "What about _you?_ I heard you, Chris! You tried to kill Buck! You're supposed to be his friend."

Chris drew in a deep breath. He dropped his voice low – his "killer" voice, his men laughingly called it in happier days. He had to clench his fists tightly to keep himself from grabbing JD and shaking the snot out of him. What happened between him and Buck, all those years ago – what Chris had done was unforgivable, but it was between _him and Buck_. JD wasn't part of it and never had been. He could hear the lethal tone in his voice when he said, "It happened a long time ago. And it's none of your damn business."

 _"None of my business?"_ JD was so pissed, he didn't even seem to notice the high-pitched shriek that came out of his mouth.

Chris stepped back, leaning against the wall, fighting to control his own rage. "No, it's not. Look, JD, I'm not proud of what happened. But it was a long time ago, and it's between Buck and me." He grabbed onto the last bit of control he had. "But what you did in there was -."

"Because I punched you? Damn it, you deserve it!"

"No, not because you attacked me! And yeah, I did deserve it. But how can you do that to _Buck?_ Where the hell have you been, JD? Buck is _this close_ to dying, and you stampede in there acting like an ass?"

JD opened his mouth, then shut it again. He just glared at Chris. He didn't say anything.

Chris had lost his last shred of patience. "You get out of here until you calm down," he ordered. He started back into the room. "Don't come back until you can –"

"You have no right to tell me what to do!"

Chris turned back and grabbed him by the shoulder. "The hell I don't," he snarled. "I'm your boss, remember. More than that, I have Buck's POA. You're not getting near him again until you calm down. He doesn't need this right now."

JD jerked free. His fists balled up. His face darkened red, something Chris had never seen before. "I'm his best friend, not you," he spat. "You replaced him, with Vin, remember?"

Rage flared up through Chris. He grabbed JD's shoulder and shook him, hard. "Don't try to talk about things you don't know anything about!" His could hear his voice shaking. From somewhere, the thought randomly occurred to him that this was definitely not what Buck had meant by "fixing it." But no matter. Right now, Chris knew he had to get JD away from here, and he had to get away from JD before he lost the last of his control. Just then, he saw Nathan. He had no idea where the team medic had appeared from and he didn't care. He shifted his attention back to JD and hissed, "You have no idea what Buck means to me. None." He looked over JD's head. "Nathan, get him away from here." He slammed back into Buck's room.

 **7777777**

Nathan was staring at him. "JD, what the hell is going on?"

Fury rose in JD. How dare fucking Chris Larabee tell _him_ to leave? _He_ was Buck's best friend. _He_ was the one that was there for him. Chris treated Buck like shit, he –

And then, like a deluge of ice water, JD remembered what had just happened.

He remembered the look on Buck's face.

Buck had been worried, scared.

But not worried about JD,

His intent gaze had been on _Chris._ He hadn't even looked at JD.

He'd been worried for _Chris._

Chris. Who had just admitted he'd _cut Buck's throat_. Tried to kill him

But Buck's concern was all for _him._

JD stormed past Nathan and headed toward the elevator.

He had to get out of here.

 **7777777**

 _Ten minutes before…_

Nathan Jackson stretched sore back muscles as he left Ezra's ICU cubicle and walked down the hall, nodding at the two agents on guard as he did so. Both of them looked a little rattled. Dr. Kruse, looking pretty shaken himself, had told Nathan that David Wyerly had died, and how his uncle had reacted, his threats. Nathan shook his head. He hoped the millionaire – or rather, the _billionaire_ – was just reacting out of grief and anger, and not actually planning on carrying through with his threats. The man had already lost two family members to their own criminal activity. And the last thing Team Seven needed was more targets on their backs.

Nathan knew some of his teammates – most of them, actually – were convinced Arthur Curran was a criminal overlord himself. Nathan had never been so sure about that. Evidence had traced back to Steven Curran – not easily, but it had been there for them to find – but never a whisper of a hint that Arthur Curran was involved in anything the slightest bit suspect. And really, why would he be? The man was richer than a Rockefeller and his family was almost as old and venerable. He donated heavily to charities, too. Nathan wasn't naïve enough to think that made him an angel, but still – after all the law enforcement investigations, after Team Seven's own exhaustive investigation and the time Ezra had spent undercover, wouldn't there have been _something_ showing Curran was involved, if he was?

He took a deep breath. Hospital air. Never could mistake it. But at least the hallway air was fresher than the refrigerated air in Ezra's ICU cubicle. As a medic, Nathan understood why things had to be kept so cold in there, but it didn't mean the chill hadn't seeped into his bones. And dear God, why couldn't there be more comfortable furniture for anxious friends and family sitting at bedside? In spite of himself, Nathan grinned. He knew the answer to that, too. Intensive Care units didn't really _want_ family or friends keeping bedside vigils and procured the most uncomfortable furniture to encourage visitors to stay in the waiting rooms. That technique had never worked on any member of Team Seven, though. Four Corners-Mercy – the hospital that seemed to bear the brunt of their visitations, had long since given up and brought in a couple of comfortable chairs. University Hospital hadn't caved, yet, but if Buck or Ezra spent much more time in ICU, Nathan was going to go find more accommodating seating even if he had to go buy it himself.

His grin vanished as other thoughts overwhelmed him. Ezra would recover. He had yet to regain consciousness, but his vital signs were improving steadily. Knowing Ezra, he was just taking this opportunity for some extra sleep. Really, it was a miracle that he wasn't in worse shape, given that David Wyerly had essentially tortured the undercover agent. Ezra Standish seemed to have the resiliency of a rubber band. He seemed to deal with the often-horrible things he'd seen undercover, along with his frequent injuries, with a calm that Nathan had taken too long to realize was a façade. Would this be the event that sent him spinning away into PTSD? Would he just walk away?

Nathan wasn't sure, but he had a suspicion that Ezra didn't _need_ to work. Even if he wasn't independently wealthy – and really, he gave every appearance of being so – he was intelligent, suave, well-educated, and he could talk a blind man into seeing. Not to mention he was genius at poker and a natural con man. Ezra could do anything. He didn't have to keep risking his life as a government agent, when he could probably make four or five times his annual salary doing something with much less risk.

Josiah insisted what kept Ezra with them was family, the family they'd formed with the team. But Nathan wasn't so sure about that. Even if Ezra did consider them family, at some point he was going to have to want to stop living a lie all the time as an undercover agent. Risking his life – for what?

Nathan didn't understand Ezra Standish. Never had.

But he'd miss the cuss if he ever decided to leave…

Buck. He was a different situation.

Buck had defied the odds, surviving first the injures from the explosion, then the pneumonia, then the poisoning attempt. But he wasn't out of the woods yet, and Nathan knew it better than probably any of his teammates. The list of possible setbacks and life -threatening secondary conditions was long and threatening: Pulmonary embolism. Respiratory failure. Secondary infections. Blood clots. Sepsis. Stroke. Buck's big, loving heart might simply give up from the strain of recovery…

And if he did survive the next few months, what then?

Complete recovery from the kind of injuries he'd suffered – recovery enough to allow him to requalify as a field agent, not to mention 2IC of the regional emergency management team that Team Seven was – the odds were very much against it. Buck might never even be able to walk without a limp, never mind running or climbing or rappelling down buildings or cliffs. He might never recover the steady hand and keen vision and deadly aim to fire his service weapon. He might never even have enough oxygen capacity to be more than two feet from a portable 02 unit.

Even if by some miracle, Buck managed to overcome all the odds to return to active duty –when would that be? Months, for sure, maybe years. How long would Travis and the higher-ups in Washington let there be such a significant gap on Team Seven's roster before they started pushing Chris to select a replacement? Hell, they already had, by shoving Bobby Fewell in for the Hugo operation. Nathan didn't think Fewell was very likely to be added to the team. Especially not the way he'd been bad-mouthing Ezra. But there were plenty of other agents who would probably jump at the chance to be on Chris Larabee's team.

Except… it wasn't just Chris' team. Maybe the ATF higher-ups didn't realize this, but the success of Denver Team Seven wasn't just due to Chris Larabee.

It was very much due to the second in command, Buck Wilmington.

Buck who patiently had brought every one of them into the fold, cushioned the differences between seven strong personalities, seven different life experiences. Ran interference between the tortured if brilliant Chris Larabee, and the rest of them.

Chris Larabee had formed a team, and a damn good one. The best.

Buck Wilmington had forged that team into a strong family unit that would stick together through anything.

Anything, except, maybe, losing the man who had glued them together. Chris would survive – after all he had Vin now – but the rest of them? Could even Vin blunt Chris' harsh edges to keep from stabbing the heart from the team?

They were seven strong. But not just _any_ seven could have made up the so-called Magnificent Seven.

A humming, a vibration in his pocket, suddenly distracted Nathan from his thoughts as he realized his muted cell phone was trying to get his attention. He fished out of his pocket, his mouth going dry as he recognized the phone number in the view screen. He answered it, forcing his name out with lips and tongue that suddenly felt numb.

The call was, as he'd feared, from the secretary of the Paramedic Examination Board. She'd received his message that he had been unable to take the recertification examination as scheduled. Nathan bumbled through his explanation, thinking he sounded like an idiot.

There was a pause, then a sigh from the other end of the phone. _"Agent Jackson, I appreciate the situation you're in, but there's nothing I can do to help you. The state law on recertification is clear. I understand your job situation precluded you from sitting the exam when you were originally scheduled to, but the fact is you didn't take the exam at all. We made accommodations – in light of the fact you're a federal agent – and extended your license into a grace period, but that was dependent upon you passing the exam within thirty days. That period has elapsed, and you didn't even check into the exam. Your license has not been renewed and therefore your ability to function as an EMT is suspended until such time as you complete the requirements to apply for the exam again, take the exam and complete with a passing score."_

"I know that," Nathan managed. "And I appreciate the Board's understanding. But –"

 _"_ _I do understand you have other job duties in addition to being an EMT. But we can't get around the fact that special accommodations were made for you, and you failed to uphold your commitment."_ The woman's voice was not unsympathetic, but quite firm.

 _"_ _The letter suspending your license has already been sent, certified mail; and the appropriate parties have been notified."_

Nathan winced. _Appropriate parties?_ Who all would that include? Chris? Well, it was doubtful Chris knew yet, since he'd been at the hospital or out looking for Ezra. Doubtful he'd been at his desk long enough to sort through official memos. But surely someone in the Denver ATF office had been told – it after all negatively affected Nathan's ability to perform the job he was supposed to. Travis, maybe? Montgomery? No, not Montgomery. At least he hadn't known when they'd gone in to rescue Ezra. If he had, Nathan had no doubt he'd have banned Nathan from functioning as a medic there, and he would have told Chris, as well.

Nathan was not looking forward to telling Chris Larabee how badly he'd screwed up.

He took a deep breath. "Okay, I understand. So… where do we go from here?"

 _"_ _You have to complete the requirements for reinstatement. That includes twenty hours of continuing education, fifty hours of supervised observation in the field with a licensed paramedic or EMT, and an interview and oral examination with an evaluating member of the Board. When all that is successfully completed, you will be allowed to apply to take the written certification examination at the next regularly scheduled opportunity. Oh, and there is a three-hundred-dollar penalty, in addition to the regularly scheduled fees."_

Nathan winced. He'd known about the continuing education requirement – and this was on top of the thirty hours he'd _already_ completed. But the supervised observation – that was something he'd done so many years ago, when he was first applying for his license. It was basically a ride-along, doing basic tasks under the direction of an EMT. Things like organizing equipment, writing reports, setting up materials. No actual paramedic skills were required. And it was going to take _so damn long_ to schedule and complete those hours, especially given how irregular his hours as a working ATF agent could be.

He managed to mumble thanks to the secretary and then disconnected the phone.

A working ATF agent? Would he even still be one when this information came out? Yes, he _was_ an ATF agent – but his designated responsibility on ATF Team Seven was to be their medic. Would the ATF continue to allow him to function in that role when he was not licensed? Would _Chris?_

The average ATF team didn't have a licensed paramedic, although at least one person on each team had to have more than just basic first aid training. Remtef teams were different, although Chris was the one who had mandated his team – one of the pilot Remtef teams – have a licensed paramedic. Nathan had been an EMT and a physician's assistant before he'd interviewed for the job, and he was sure that was the primary reason he'd been hired over other applicants. The fact he'd be allowed to continue as a medic had been a definitive reason he'd applied, and later accepted, the position with Denver Team Seven.

But now…

He needed to talk to Larabee.

Nathan looked around.

Without realizing it, he'd walked out to the large waiting room between the two sides of the ICU floor. There were maybe a dozen people scattered through the large space, most of them dozing. The large windows revealed the sky outside was lightening with the rosy flush of early morning. Nathan spotted Josiah, fast asleep on one of the shapeless sofas, his jacket tucked around him like a blanket. A little farther way were Vin and Monica Hastings, sitting close, holding hands, talking intently, their heads almost touching. There was something intimate in their position. In spite of everything else weighing on his mind, Nathan had to sigh. Vin hadn't been in a relationship – anything more than an occasional casual date – since the whole mess with Charlotte Richmond in the first year after Team Seven's formation. That had ended badly, both the relationship and the criminal case involved. Chris had been furious with Vin and Ezra almost as angry. Vin had been suspended without pay for two weeks and Josiah had told Nathan Vin had considered quitting because of the fallout and the negative 'd been understandably leery about getting involved with any woman since.

But he was obviously very interested in Monica Hastings. Nathan had noticed that back when they had first interviewed her. Vin had been responsive to her vulnerability. Nathan remembered when she'd sent the tracker those roses. Normally Vin would have been embarrassed to death about something like that; he'd just been pleased and happy when he'd realized the flowers were from Dr. Hastings.

Nathan had nothing against the woman. To the contrary, he was in awe of her genius and her abilities as a scientist. He was grateful she'd saved both Buck and Ezra's lives. And Nathan knew better than to judge someone by whom they might happen to be related to. Look at Ezra and his Ma, or Josiah and his father. Hell, look at Nathan's _own_ father. Obadiah Jackson had felt he'd been totally justified in taking the law into his own hands and murdering a man; the man that, years before, had raped Nathan's mother and indirectly caused her suicide. Nathan could understand why his father had done what he'd done, but he couldn't agree with it. The law existed for a reason. Whatever his reasons, Obadiah Jackson had violated the law and murdered another human being. If it hadn't been for that high-powered lawyer Ezra had conjured up from somewhere, Nathan's father would have died in prison, instead of in the hospice unit of this very hospital. No, Nathan couldn't fault Monica Hastings just because of her family.

But still, Monica's cousin had kidnapped and tortured Ezra. And this had _just happened._ JD had shot him not twelve hours before. Monica's uncle had threatened Team Seven in front of Vin and at least two other ATF agents, as well as Monica.

Not the best time for Vin to get involved with her romantically.

Shaking his head again, Nathan turned away – neither Monica nor Vin had seemingly noticed him standing there staring at them – and headed down to the closed doors leading to the unit where Buck was. He knew Chris would be at Buck's side.

Only he wasn't. As Nathan walked through the pneumatic doors, he immediately saw Chris and JD, face to face and practically toe to toe. Larabee's face was set in stone, but his green eyes blazed as he stared down the youngest team member.

And JD…

JD looked like he was going to plow right though Chris.

Chris caught Nathan's eye but didn't say anything at first. He looked back at JD, grabbed his shoulder and shook it. He snapped something, but his voice was so low-pitched Nathan couldn't hear the words. He heard the fury in the tone, though.

Then Chris raised his voice so Nathan could hear, as he shoved JD toward him. "Nathan, get him away from here." Chris practically spit out the words, each syllable crisp and hard as a diamond. Before Nathan could say anything in return, Chris turned on his heel and strode back down the hall toward Buck's room.

Nathan stared at JD. He'd seen Chris enraged before, but never _this_ mad, not at JD.

And he'd never seen JD Dunne shaking with rage as he was now.

"JD?" Nathan started. He moved toward the younger man, hand outstretched. "What's going on?"

JD glared after Chris. His face was beet-red and his shoulders heaved. He looked at Nathan, opened his mouth, then pressed his lips tightly together and shoved past Nathan, bolting back through the double doors and out of sight.

Left behind, Nathan didn't know what to do. It was obvious Chris needed to talk with someone, but there were only two people who could get through to him in this kind of mood, and one of them – Buck – was in the room Chris had just slammed into. If _Buck_ couldn't manage to find out what Chris was raging about, _Nathan_ had no chance.

No chance with Chris. But maybe he could talk with JD.

Nathan took off after JD.

 **7777777**

"Are you people _trying_ to kill him?" Culver demanded of Chris.

Chris had tried to go back into Buck's room after the confrontation with JD, but the doctor had ordered him back out again. Now, in front of the nurse's station, the physician faced Chris down. And he was _not_ happy.

Chris rubbed a hand over his face. "How's Buck?"

Culver glared at him. "The man is just out of a coma. And he wakes up to find his designated next of kin and his roommate brawling with each other in his hospital room. Just how the hell do you think he is?"

In the weeks since Chris had met the doctor, he'd never seen him so angry. And honestly, Chris didn't blame him one bit. He already regretted the way he'd dealt with JD. For God's sake, JD had walked in to hear Chris confessing he'd stabbed Buck. JD didn't know the circumstances, he didn't know Chris had been drunk and out of his mind and not even really seeing Buck that night, that he was seeing some unnamed, faceless evil that had torn his family from him…

Not that that excused Chris' behavior, then or now.

Hell, if it hadn't been in front of Buck, Chris would have volunteered to let JD whale on him. Maybe it would have done something to assuage the bitter guilt welling up inside Chris when he realized he could have killed his oldest friend.

But unfortunately, it _had_ been in front of Buck.

Chris knew Buck Wilmington too well. He knew, knew it in his soul, even if Buck hadn't said it, that Buck never blamed him for anything that had happened in those dark days after Sarah and Adam had been killed. Days, hell. Months, over a year that Chris had lashed out at Buck, knowing he could, knowing Buck would stand there and take it.

Because Buck was the only one left. The only member of Chris' family left.

Chris knew Buck, but he didn't understand him. He never could understand why Buck stayed by his side, why he took the abuse Chris dished out. If the situation had been reversed, Chris knew he himself wouldn't have tolerated it. He'd have come right back at Buck, physically; and then he would have walked the hell away as fast as he could. And _never_ come back.

Did that make Buck Wilmington a better man that Chris Larabee?

Well, yes.

But there was more to it than that. More than Chris could understand, could ever wrap his mind around. He knew there was literally nothing he could do that Buck wouldn't forgive.

And that was frightening.

Chris couldn't say that about anybody else in the world. Even Vin, his best friend, the man who literally felt like a missing piece. If Vin had been in Buck's shoes back then, Vin would have left. Just turned around and left. Even now, Chris knew he didn't have the same leeway with Vin he did with Buck. Even if he had been so dense as to not realize it himself, Vin had told him, plenty of times. Back when the team was first being formed, when Chris still didn't have as good as control of himself as he should. The Team wouldn't have survived the first six months if Buck Wilmington hadn't been there, putting himself between Chris' temper and the rest of the guys. Vin could see it. Hell, a blind man could see it. If Travis or the Senator that had pushed for Chris to lead the first Remtef team had seen what the team members themselves saw, they'd have kicked Chris to the curb and made Buck Wilmington the team leader. And they probably should have. But Travis and the Senator, the public at large, the ATF big wigs – they didn't see it. All they saw was the reputation.

The reputation Chris had, which Buck had partly earned for him with his own sweat, his blood, and his soul.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Chris blinked, banishing all the memories from his and Buck's shared past to confront the doctor in the present. He nodded. "Is he…?"

The doctor held up a hand. "He's no worse. I ordered a sedative, because he was – quite naturally – pretty upset by that scene between you two. I'm about this close," Culver held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger almost touching, "to banning both you and JD from this hospital! This _can't_ happen again, Chris. Buck needs quiet and support, not –". Words seemed to fail him, and he just shook his head.

Chris didn't say anything. What could he say? But he stared at the doctor, knowing his expression was challenging him to try to keep him from Buck.

After a long minute, Culver said, his voice a little calmer, "Well, I'm not going to prohibit you from seeing him. Not because you're his POA, and _not_ because you're giving me a death glare. I promised Buck I wouldn't. But one more incident, and that's it. I'll do what's best for my patient, no matter what _he_ thinks about it. Are we clear on that?"

Chris relaxed, only belatedly realizing just how tense his shoulders were. He nodded. "I'll make sure of it. I am sorry, Doc. I – let the situation get out of hand."

Culver snorted. "Really?"

Chris winced. Ezra Standish couldn't have been any more sarcastic than that.

Culver wasn't done. "Were you telling me, before all that in there, that _you_ are responsible for that scar on Buck's throat?"

His answer wasn't going to do anything to reassure the doctor that Chris was no threat to his patient, but Chris was honest anyway. He couldn't actually bring himself to say it, just nodded, once.

"Well, I would guess it happened at least four years ago, and you're still Buck's legal next of kin, so I gather he doesn't hold that against you." Culver was looking at Chris intently, as if he'd never really seen him before. "And he actually just told me it was _his_ fault."

"It wasn't," Chris managed to say. "Look, I know…" he shrugged. Exhaustion swept over him, so powerfully he felt his knees tremble. For one terrifying second he thought he was going to fall down.

Culver grasped his elbow and walked him behind the nurse's station to a chair, forcing Chris into it. "When did you eat last? Or sleep?"

Chris laughed a little. "I couldn't tell you," he admitted.

Culver raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Wonderful," he murmured, the sarcasm back in his voice. "Look, go home. Or somewhere. Get a meal, a shower, about eight hours sleep. Buck's going to sleep for a while." He held up his hand again when Chris opened his mouth to argue. "Don't make me change my mind about banning you."

 **7777777**

In spite of Vin's arguments against it, Monica insisted she needed to go to her uncle's home. "Nina needs me," she said. "Uncle Arthur needs me."

Vin snorted. "Your uncle hurt you!" he reminded her, lightly touching one of the bruises on her arm. "And he just threatened my whole team!"

Monica shook her head. "He wasn't – he didn't mean it, Vin, I'm sure. He's just… upset. Vin, David just _died._ I know he… I know he tried to kill Agent Standish. Your friend. David is… was –" she was obviously searching for words to describe her cousin, but finally she just let her hands drop. "David loved Steven," she said, finally, her voice very quiet. "I think… Steven was the only person he ever did love. He doesn't – he didn't love Nina. He didn't even like me, much. And I never even heard him mention his parents after he came to live with us. But Steven, that was different. Sometimes, I thought it was more than just… you know, _family_ love."

"You think they were lovers?"

"No," Monica shook her head. "No. But I think, maybe David felt that way about Steven. He was crazy after Steven died." Her gaze grew unfocused, as if she were seeing the past. "He did… he said horrible things about Agent Standish. Awful things. That he was a traitor, that he'd set up Steven –"

"He didn't. Monica, Ez is an undercover agent. He's… clever and sharp, but he's –" Now it was Vin's turn to search for words, because how did he explain the role of an undercover agent – more, how did he explain how Ezra could be both a con artist and an honest man, how he could play the game with the criminals, convince them he was one of them, and never yet cross the line into entrapment? It was a fine line, a dangerous world that undercover agents walked. Vin had been under enough times with Ezra to know that. He knew the burn out rate for undercover agents, knew that a lot of times they fell into the dark side without ever realizing it.

But, even more than that, Vin knew Ezra Standish. Knew him. Trusted him.

Called him friend.

Thought of him as a brother.

To even imagine that David Wyerly had thought he was justified in his torture, his attempt to kill Ezra…

Monica reached up and put her hands on Vin's face, drawing his eyes down to meet hers. "I know," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I know he's your friend. And I know he was just doing his job. Steven," she took a deep breath. "Steven was a criminal. I know that now, Vin. I know Agent Standish did what he had to do. Your other friend, JD, he did what he had to do, too. David would have killed Agent Standish –"

"Ezra," Vin said.

"Ezra. David would have killed him, if JD hadn't stopped him. I think… now, I wonder if he didn't plan that all along. I thought he was just upset, grieving, talking out of his head, but now – Vin, David could have got into my lab. He came to visit sometimes –"

Vin frowned. He didn't know what she was talking about. Then, suddenly, it hit him. He sucked in a surprised breath. "You think Wyerly took the drug from your lab and poisoned Ezra?"

She hesitated, then nodded her head. "Maybe…"

"But, when we did all the security checks of your lab… and what about –" so much had happened, Vin had to struggle to remember the name of the lab tech that had been blamed for the theft and Ezra's poisoning.

"Kevin Murine?" Monica filled in for him. "David recommended him to me. I thought it was a little weird, because how would David know someone like Kevin? But Kevin had the background and training I was looking for. When I said David came to the lab – he didn't come to see me. And he wasn't on the sign in logs because he never came past the reception area. He was going out with a girl who worked there for a while. She wasn't a tech or anything, just a file clerk that worked for me a couple months. But… even after she left, I saw David there a couple times. From my office. I asked him once, why he was there, when he never even buzzed me, and he said something about he'd dropped some papers off at the desk that Nina had sent." She shook her head. "I'm an idiot. I never asked Nina about it. But, Vin, Nina wouldn't have sent legal papers over with David! She would have brought them herself or used a courier. David didn't have anything to do with the lab."

This was too much. They had been sure – so sure – that Kevin Murine had been working for Marcus Hoyt. The way that nurse – Morales – had been. That Hoyt had paid both of them to kill Ezra.

But if Monica was right –

Just then, Vin saw JD come running out of the ICU doors and, bypassing the elevators, slam open the fire door leading to the staircase.

"What the –" Vin started. Then, like a thunder bolt to his brain, he thought, ' _Buck!'_

"Vin?" Monica questioned.

The ICU doors hissed open again and Nathan ran out, looking around wildly.

"Something's going on," Vin said, feeling panic well up in his stomach.

Nathan saw Vin and hurried over to him. "Have you seen JD?"

"He just took off down the stairs," Vin answered. "What's wrong? Is Buck -?" he couldn't say the words.

"I don't know!" Nathan exclaimed. "Chris and JD were arguing and then Chris ordered me to get JD away from him. Chris went back to Buck's room, and JD took off. Vin, I don't know what is going on, but it's not good!"

 **7777777**

When you spent your life living in other people's homes, the way JD Dunne had, you learned the rules. JD may have resided in that elegant brownstone on Boston's Beacon Hill, but he didn't really belong there. He was the child of a servant. As he had learned when they had precipitously left the small apartment on the top floor, living somewhere and it being your home were two different things.

When he'd first moved in with Buck Wilmington, he'd been careful, so careful. Kept all of his belongings tucked in his bedroom, even keeping his toothbrush and shaving materials in his nightstand, rather than leaving them in the downstairs bathroom, even though Buck kept his toiletries in the upstairs bathroom off the master bedroom. He'd asked Buck's permission before he'd even toasted a slice of bread in the mornings; bought his own coffee and a small coffee maker and kept it in his bedroom rather than assuming he could pour a cup from the pot Buck set up every night.

This went on for two weeks. JD was quite satisfied with the arrangement but – as he learned later – having a creeping mouse of a houseguest sneaking about the place was driving Buck crazy. It resolved in a typically Wilmington fashion: the older man simply plunked breakfast in front of JD one morning, told him to "Eat it and stop acting like an idiot," and then went on from there. Buck was open and accepting, and he was incapable of being guileful or setting traps or really, getting all that obsessive about personal space.

It took a while, but they worked out a good living arrangement, helped, JD knew, by the fact Buck honestly did seem to like him and enjoy his company. Buck learned JD didn't like Buck to come into his room and rummage around his things when he wasn't there; JD figured out that Buck didn't care if he borrowed the last twenty from his wallet without asking, but he'd better _never_ forget to replace the TV remote on the shelf under the coffee table.

All of the units in the renovated warehouse had a storage area on the ground floor. JD didn't have anything he really needed to store for a long time, so he didn't even know about the good-sized cubicle until his first Christmas in Denver. That space, he learned, was where Buck kept not one, but _two_ , 6-foot white-flocked imitation pine trees, enough lights to double their electric bill for the month, and five cartons of assorted and mismatched Christmas ornaments and house decorations (including a Las Vegas inspired "Nativity" scene where the Three Wise Men all were dressed like Elvis Presley in different movie outfits. JD could never look at the thing without thinking that Father O'Doughney, the priest who'd overseen his Confirmation, would probably have had a heart attack at the mere sight of it.)

But that was all Buck had in the storage area, and that seemed strange to JD. He knew Buck well enough by this time to realize Buck did accumulate possessions: he had three large bookcases of nothing but paperbacks, after all; and more kitchen equipment than one would think a confirmed bachelor would even know about; but no matter where JD looked, he didn't see much of Buck's life before the ATF.. There were a couple of photo albums in his room and his diploma from UNLV in a wooden frame on his desk. There might be more _in_ the desk; that was one thing Buck was kind of picky about. He didn't like JD – or anyone, really, messing around in the drawers of the desk or the four-unit file cabinet that sat next to it. That first year, JD saw Chris Larabee snap at Buck multiple times; the only time he ever saw Buck return in kind was when Chris, over for a football game, had rummaged in the top drawer for … something, JD didn't even remember what it was. Buck had called Chris on the carpet for it; by the quick and sincere apology Chris returned, JD realized this was not a new behavior.

But still, where _did_ Buck keep the rest of his stuff?

He figured it out when some old case from their Denver PD days came back to bite Team Seven in the ass. Some guy Chris and Buck had put in prison ages before got his conviction reversed, suddenly and unexpectedly, on appeal. Suddenly, both Buck and Chris were being questioned about their role in the investigation, so many years before.

And it turned out that Chris and Buck had both kept extensive personal notes of their cases. Extensive enough that even Ezra was impressed. And both of them kept their notes in the same place: file cabinets, lined up along a wall in Chris' attic. One Saturday all of Team Seven was up in the attic that took up the entire third floor of the ranch house, digging through the files, and finding enough information to promptly send the guy's appeal crashing and him back to prison.

That day, rummaging around in the attic, JD had noticed file boxes and cardboard cartons and heavy duty gunmetal sea chests, pieces of old furniture and some actual antique pieces, and also the usual junk you find in attics, but not as much because this was, after all, Chris Larabee's attic, and Chris was more than a touch on the anal side of personality. And that afternoon, listening to Chris and Buck talk as they moved from one of corner of the space to another, JD realized that all of this stuff was not just Chris', or memories of Chris dead wife and son or his grandparents that had once owned the house. No, a goodly portion of the things in that attic belonged to Buck.

Now, as the first rays of the morning sun peeked over the surrounding mountains and JD stopped Buck's pickup in front of the Larabee ranch house, he couldn't believe he'd failed to understand the significance of Buck's belongings – Buck's past – being stored in that attic. Buck might like his condo – or had liked it, before it had been destroyed – but the ranch was the place he really considered his home. Buck even had his own key to Chris' house. The other members of Team Seven were always welcome there – Chris had been surprisingly accepting about that from the very beginning, especially given how reticent he could be about discussing his past. Josiah, Nathan, Ezra, Vin and JD himself knew were the hide a key was and that they were welcome to use it any time. Buck, however, never needed to use the spare key, because he had his own, right on his key ring with the key to his condo and the key to his truck. For that matter, it hit JD suddenly, Chris had a key to the condo, as well, as well as his own key to Buck's pickup. Remembering what Montgomery had said the night before, JD could only shake his head at how dense he'd been all this time, not realizing how entwined Buck and Chris lives were.

But the rest of it, what Montgomery had told him, JD wasn't sure he could believe. He didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to believe that Buck had been lying to him – to all of them – this whole time.

The truth, one way or another, would be, JD knew, in Chris' attic.

 _Tbc…_


End file.
